


The Malfoy Case

by nasimwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Legal Drama, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 142,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/pseuds/nasimwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trials for suspected Death Eaters involved in the Wizarding Wars have begun, and Draco Malfoy finds himself trying to hold together what is left of his family and his fortune, while struggling to escape the looming, almost inevitable future of a lifetime spent in Azkaban. But there is one person who might not have given up completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The fireplace crackled sharply, cutting through the silence. The hall seemed to ring with emptiness.

"You need to at least try this time around."

His voice sounded hollow. The house felt hollow. Her expression was the epitome of hollow.

Around them, the drapes hung low over the windows, and the stained glass of the skylights above was enveloped in cobwebs, but even the shadows that spread over the floor couldn't quite hide the spaces where all the ancient furniture used to sit. The footprints of their dragged bodies had left marks of dust on the once polished floor, and he air seemed to hang heavily, hardly making an effort to carry his voice.

The tall columns and tapestried walls were now empty, the paintings leaving gaping black holes everywhere they hung. His ancestors had long retired into the walls, taking their sinister stares with them. He often found himself wishing he could do the same.

It was just a house, now. An old, faded picture of ancient memories that guilt, pain and shame had worn out into a decrepit ghost. Just a vast, empty house, whose old role of a mother had been buried under a short, but unforgettable career as a prison.

"The china," he said, almost like he was baiting her for a reaction. He waited for a flinch, a flash of resentment, anything.

Nothing.

Beside them, the fire flared slightly, casting drunken, bloodshot light onto her pale face, and the bag in his hand felt impossibly heavy. Her eyes seemed to see straight through his shoulder. When had he grown taller than she was? It must have happened years ago. He couldn't remember ever noticing it before now.

The watch in his pocket was ticking away, and every second brought new weight to the bag in his hand. He forced the words out one more time.

"Please, Mother. At least try."

And turning away from her, without even glancing at her in some wistful hope of a response, he seized a handful of the grey powder from the bag and threw it into the towering fireplace, reaching to pull his mother into the flames with him.

One last glance into the room made him regret it; the bright green flash of the flames against the alabaster floor made him want to throw up. He clenched his jaw tightly as the world began to spin and he hoped, in a swift, sickened thought at himself, that his words hadn't sounded quite as much as begging as he felt they had.

…

"This is ridiculous." Ernie Macmillan ran his hand through his hair in frustration, glaring down at the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and splayed his hands on the shining wood. Then he turned his head to look at the woman to his left. "The case is practically closed; there isn't a soul in that courtroom that believes otherwise. The jury has known the truth since 1973! Even Howard knew it! Prolonging this trial any further would simply be preposterous."

"The very fact that Perkins abandoned his client is proof enough that the case cannot be decided on with so little evidence to stand on."

Macmillan scoffed. "'Little evidence'? I beg to differ! The only evidence there has been little of is that of Malfoy's innocence. And with absolutely no argument being made on the accused's part, I believe the decision will be an easy one."

"That's the very reason for why I'm replacing Perkins," said Greengrass, her blue eyes flashing as she turned to the three seated at the table. "Minister, my client's representation so far has been handled in a way which was, frankly, quite mediocre. It would be unjust to proceed to the jury with no decent defense having being made. My client is quite clearly mentally unwell and is yet to recover from the trauma-"

"Well, if it was an issue of dealing with  _trauma_ , then I believe some of the victims-"

"Please, Mr. Macmillan," Kingsley Shacklebolt interrupted, his deep voice calming some of the tension in the room. "There is some logic in Miss Greengrass' objection. The Wizengamot has not, perhaps, gotten the full picture of the accused's motivations, given the lack of response before the witness testimonies."

"I'm sorry, Minister," Macmillan put in, taking another deep breath to calm his irritation. "But Perkins could present no hard case in favor of the accused after nearly three weeks of time. I mean no offense to Miss Greengrass here, but two hours' notice is hardly enough time to make a case. Either we reschedule or the jury makes its decision in the hearing, this very day. That is without even delving into the fact that Malfoy is clearly unwilling to participate, which in my opinion is a waste of time for everyone involved."

"My client's mental health is fragile, but it is of no concern to the jury as an obstacle to the trial," Greengrass said firmly. "The demonstrated lack of participation is mere proof of the emotional commotion that was suffered. It is all the more reason to be open to the possibility of rescheduling the hearing-"

"How are you going to get words out of that mouth when you haven't even had a chance to speak to your client? It  _must_  be rescheduled, if not canceled altogether! Merlin, Greengrass, it's glaringly  _obvious_  where the blame lies, forget 'emotional commotion'…"

Another voice cleared its throat at the Minister's side. Percy Weasley looked up from the parchments he had been poring over for the last few minutes. His expression was grave from under his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm afraid a rescheduling would be impossible. There is only one hour open this week; afterwards the Wizengamot is to be present at Courtroom 3 for the hearing of Bogrod the Goblin. Either way this trial cannot extend itself further than a fortnight; should you want to reschedule it, the next time would be the last."

"Can I take both?"

Macmillan threw his hands up in the air in resignation. The Minister almost seemed to smile with amusement as Greengrass fixed her earnest gaze on Percy Weasley.

He looked taken aback, and turned to look at the Minister in askance. Greengrass explained herself swiftly. "Let today act as a response to the witness Macmillan has brought with him; I'll work with what I have. But it's probable it won't be enough to set up a proper defense. If the need arises, can I call for an extension next week?"

"It won't be enough time to clear a Malfoy," Macmillan murmured under his breath. She ignored him.

"We'd rather it didn't come to that," said Bill Weasley, from the Minister's other side. His scarred face was slightly contorted with a frown. He sighed. "But I'm afraid that it might indeed be necessary to prolong the trial. It wouldn't do to have the Wizengamot accused of injustice, especially not at this time. Though Malfoy is hardly in a position to negotiate, we must go along with Miss Greengrass on principle."

He and the Minister met Macmillan's gaze almost apologetically, and the prosecuting barrister took a few steps away from the table with a resigned sigh, taking off his glasses to clean them on his grey robes. Greengrass had a small smile of triumph on her lips.

"Thank you," she said, collecting her briefcase from a nearby desk. She turned back at the sound of Bill Weasley's voice.

"Please prove this to be the right decision, Miss Greengrass."

She gave a short nod. "I will."

Macmillan followed her out of the room, still scowling. But his frustrated expression faded somewhat as they walked down the corridor of offices together. Though they were taking opposing sides in the case, they had studied together for some time and had great respect for each other. Astoria might even venture to say she considered him a friend.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes. Enough time to finish reading up on what little Howard Perkins had left on the case before giving up on it… or 'leaving for vacations', as he had excused himself. They passed a gaggle of reporters who were being pushed out into another corridor by some guards. The  _Prophet_  had gotten insufferable in their attempts to reinstate their reliability, and almost seemed to be everywhere at once. She wasn't looking forward to the announcement of her replacing the Malfoy barrister.

"Don't make this into some sort of heroic tale, Greengrass," Macmillan told her in a low voice as they turned a corner towards the lift.

"I don't follow."

"You know what I mean," he said seriously, his expression almost concerned. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you'll be saving some misunderstood villain. This isn't that kind of story. Narcissa Malfoy is guilty and there won't be anything you can do to change that fact."

She didn't say anything, but shook her head slightly as the lift doors opened before them.

…

"Draco Malfoy, with your father in prison and your mother soon to be convicted, how are your feelings on your own upcoming trial?"

"Mr. Malfoy, what are your plans for the future of the family business?"

"Mrs. Malfoy, how do you feel knowing that you may be sentenced to Azkaban today? Do you have hopes of being cleared of all charges?"

"Narcissa, have you been to visit your husband?"

"Draco, do you plan to continue you studies-?"

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Mrs. Malfoy-"

He tuned them out. Wasn't there some sort of law against this level of harassment? It had been enough on the streets those few times he and his mother had ventured out into the open… why he had thought that a good idea, he didn't know. But  _here_ , in the Ministry itself… the amount of reporters was unbelievable. He kept his eyes fixed in the direction he was going, trying not to wince at the blinding flashes of the cameras. Idiots.

The Aurors on either side of him weren't helping, either. It was clear that they were only trainees; most of the real Aurors had died fighting during the War, and the current experienced had better jobs on their hands than that of escorting the accused to a trial. As they were jostled through the group of screaming reporters, trying to make their way over the polished floors of the hallway, Draco caught sight of the large fountain to his left. Water still flowed in glittering jets of water, but there were no statues or engravings anywhere on it anymore. He had read in the  _Prophet_  that various proposals had been made (most of them completely ridiculous: one of the most amusing involved a victorious Potter standing over the Dark Lord with the water shooting out from- well, suffice to say it had been rejected), but no decisions had been made as of yet. It was just as well, he thought. Things were controversial enough without adding statues and symbolism to the arguments.

Two years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. The first few months had been mostly spent in an effort to round up the main circle of Death Eaters who were clearly guilty of multiple crimes and, had Dementors still had a role in Magical Law Enforcement, were deserving of the Kiss. As it was, Thicknesse, Greyback, Rookwood, and nearly sixty others had been sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban within the first week. Among them was Lucius Malfoy.

The rest of the suspects had been banned from leaving the country, and were gradually placed under house arrest as the resources were found to enforce it. During the following months, the nation-wide effort had mostly been focused on repairing the destruction the Dark Lord had caused and reinstating what was left of the trusted Ministry employees from before the War. Hogwarts had been reopened, and all Ministry Departments had begun urgent training programs to try and fill out as many positions as were possible.

It was only about a year afterwards that the trials began for those who had clearly had roles in the War but were hard to be determined innocent or guilty. There had been some considerable reforms made to the Justice system in an attempt to learn from the mistakes in the First War against Voldemort, with careful study of the cases that claimed to be victims of Unforgivable Curses, and many had been imprisoned for their involvement with the Death Eaters since the very beginning of the name. All in all, it had taken a surprisingly long time for the investigations to reach Draco and his mother.

He wasn't sure if he was grateful for that.

Beside him, Narcissa said nothing as they got onto the lift. The Aurors finally seemed to get their act together and managed to keep the reporters from filing in behind them. Their shouts and camera flashes grew farther and farther away as the lift took them downwards, towards the courtroom.

Narcissa's grey eyes were unreadable as they sped down, her richly embroidered black robes having lost none of their elegance despite the emptiness in their pockets. Her white-blond hair flowed down her back much in the way it always had, but Draco knew that it only masked the white strands that had made their way into her locks, betraying the toll time had taken on her.

Well, it wasn't just her, he thought darkly. He knew that unlike her, he looked decidedly unkempt. His robes fit him loosely and the stubble on his chin and cheeks was getting ahead of him. He knew there were lines on his face where there shouldn't be any at the age of nineteen.

It didn't really matter, anyway. His life had long since been reduced to travelling between the house and the Ministry, and who gave a damn what you wore when half the Wizarding World was convinced (and earnestly hoped) that you'd spend the rest of your life behind bars.

"Department of Mysteries." The familiar voice rang over the sound of the doors rattling open, and the Malfoys followed the Aurors down the corridors to the courtroom.

As the heavy doors swung open before them, he met his mother's eyes for a brief second. But then he was being hurried to one side of the large dungeon and she to another, and he found himself staring down at the side of his mother's large seat, her inscrutable profile looking forwards into nothing, where he had seen chains coil round his father's wrists to keep him from escaping the armed guards around him. He wondered if she felt the ghost of his presence where she sat. His arm tingled; he automatically pulled his robe sleeve well over his fingers, clutching the fabric tightly.

Above her, on the benches that rose around the room, sat the already familiar figures of the Wizengamot, most of whom he had already known since before the trial; some of them had even been considered family friends once. Many of them had once treated him as a prince thanks to the generous amounts of gold his father had donated to the Ministry.

It was strange, how things had turned around so completely.

Hypocrites.

Well, he had to admit the Weasleys weren't, despite his dislike for him. They had always loathed him and his family, so at least they would be getting some sort of victory out of all of this. And there could be a worse Head of the Department of Magical Law enforcement than the scarred redhead, despite his pathetic attempts to emulate Mad-Eye Moody's look. So far, in the trials Draco had been to (and there had been quite a few), he had seemed to be one of the most rational among the prejudiced fools in plum-coloured robes that sat on the benches.

"The Wizengamot is present today," began Shacklebolt, his voice echoing in the vast dungeon among the soft rustling of papers and shifting feet. "To pass judgment on the case of Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, accused of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards, self-named Death Eaters, under the command of Voldemort, in the murder, torture and other crimes committed against Wizarding and Muggle population from the year 1973 to 1998. This includes," he cleared his throat, looking down at a parchment on the desk before him. Some benches lower down, a young woman with a severe case of acne of some sort was keeping note. She looked vaguely familiar. "Assisting in the hiding and protection of Death Eaters, as well as Voldemort Himself; failure to come forth with information about their plans and whereabouts; possession of several Dark Objects; participating in various Death Eater meetings and witnessing over thirty tortures and murders of innocent Muggles, Witches and Wizards, and participating in support of the Death Eaters during the Battle of Hogwarts. To this, the accused pleads not guilty."

Draco didn't need to look around to see the faces of all those in the jury contort with distaste and rage. He could feel many of the glares on himself. He found himself focusing on his mother and on the person sitting to her left.

He was surprised to see a woman with dark hair that barely grazed the base of her neck sitting at the table of the defending barrister instead of Howard Perkins. He hadn't expected there to be a replacement; it wasn't like Perkins had exactly filled him with confidence that his mother would be cleared of all charges, anyway, so it hadn't made much of a difference. But there was something determined about her stance that almost made him feel some hope that there was a level of control on the outcome of the trial. The woman looked quite young, too, even younger than he was; she had to be very recently graduated from Hogwarts.

"We wish to make clear the change in representation for Mrs. Malfoy. Astoria Greengrass shall be replacing the recently retired Howard Perkins as defense."

Ah, so that explained it. There were nods about the room. Draco leaned back in his seat languidly. There was an Auror on either side of him, but aside from them his section of the courtroom was empty. He was thankful there weren't any reporters allowed into the courtroom so that they could theorize. There had already been that  _Lonely, Poor and Soon to be Convicted: the Malfoys sit alone before the jury_ article. They disgusted him.

The Minister continued. "It is as a consequence in this change of personnel that the trial has been extended to this second installment, in the hopes that new light shall be shed upon the circumstances leading to the crimes presented by the prosecuting witnesses. Last week the jury heard the testimony of Sylvia McNair and the convicted prisoner Rabastan Lestrange."

Rabastan, the backstabber. Draco had expected it, but it had still been something of a blow. He loathed the man and had feared him ever since he had seen a picture of his crazed, sadistic features, but he was still technically family. Rabastan hadn't even benefited from giving Narcissa's name. The Ministry wouldn't drop a single year from his life sentence.

"Present today are: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; William Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Percival Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Court Scribe, Marietta Edgecombe. And as Prosecuting barrister, Ernest Macmillan."

Draco couldn't help the dislike curling in his knuckles. He remembered the pompous Hufflepuff from school, and it irked him to watch the man strut around the courtroom accusing people of things he couldn't possibly understand with that vapid mind of his.

"The defense may present its statement."

The young woman stood up swiftly at the words, her eyes fixed on the assembly before her. "Members of the Wizengamot, I am Astoria Greengrass and I represent Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. My client has been accused of conspiring with the Death Eaters during the First and Second Wizarding Wars against the Dark Wizard Voldemort. To this we plead not guilty, on grounds that coercion and blackmail were being used to force her into participating in these criminal acts.

"Last week it was made clear that Mrs. Malfoy was not under the influence of the Imperius Curse, but was also never fully in control of the environment that surrounded her. Her husband, Lucius Malfoy, who is now serving a life sentence in Azkaban, made the decision of joining the ranks of the Death Eaters early in the First War, but Mrs. Malfoy herself was never counted among the elite circle of Voldemort's followers. As evidence, we presented the lack of a Dark Mark on her forearm, known to be a clear symbol of loyalty to Voldemort. With the rise of the Second War, Lucius Malfoy fell out of favor with his Master, and their son was forcibly pulled into Death Eater ranks, as punishment for Lucius' actions, as we learned by Rabastan Lestrange's testimony. Narcissa Malfoy was unable to act against the Death Eaters, out of fear for her son's life."

At least something good had come out of Rabastan's story. Greengrass thanked the jury and sat down. The Wizengamot knew all of this already.

"We call forward the prosecutor."

Macmillan stood up. "I call forward a witness: Daria Higgins. The International Statue of Secrecy, sect. 14 states that a Muggle may be brought forth as a witness on the condition that their presence is supervised by the assigned Ministry officials and spells are applied before and after her role in the courtroom is fulfilled."

There was some commotion as three Ministry officers whom Draco assumed to be Obivators, moved forwards, escorting a dark-skinned, dazed-looking Muggle woman forwards to the witness' bench. It took a few minutes until they left and she sat there quietly, swaying slightly. She was obviously under a spell, or many, to avoid shock taking over. Or perhaps it was some legal variation of Veritaserum.

Macmillan wasted no time. He was soon at his feet before her, his hands behind his back. "Will you please state your name and living address for the jury?"

The woman did, rather vacantly, her eyes slightly glazed over as she looked at the lawyer.

"Will you tell us what it was that you witnessed on the 18th of January, 1998?"

The woman answered automatically, almost robotically. "The death of my sister, Leah Higgins."

The members of the Wizengamot looked grave. By now they were used to listening to this sort of testimony, but it was obvious that nobody involved enjoyed the experience. Draco himself felt uncomfortable; there was something about the empty expression on her face that reminded him more of the unblinking, tear-filled, dead eyes he had seen staring up at him from his father's dinner table years ago, than of the inscrutable stare his mother continued to use from her seat on the large seat in the center of the courtroom.

"Please describe the situation," said Macmillan gently.

Daria spoke quickly, as if she had planned the entire speech for months. "It was half-past five, and my sister and I were on our way home from work. We lived in a flat someway off from the main area of town, and it was deserted at that time of day because it was a residential area and everyone there commutes. I'd dropped an earring on the gravel somewhere along the last block, so I stopped to look for it, just as Leah spotted smoke some blocks away.

"She insisted we go look, but I was worried about finding my earring, so I told her kind of distractedly that I'd catch up in a minute. She left in the direction of the smoke. It took me about five minutes to find the earring and make my way towards where she'd gone."

"And what did you see when you got there?"

"I saw six people standing around her while she screamed, and they were smiling, and she was screaming, and suddenly she just wasn't and they were gone and she was dead."

The silence in the courtroom was absolute. Draco felt sick. He tried not to think about the empty blue eyes contrasting against the dark table, or the cold slither of a reptile moving past him…

A few minutes passed before Macmillan spoke again. "And was this woman," he pointed at Narcissa. Empty eyes met hollow ones. "Standing over your sister as she screamed and then died?"

"Yes."

His mother said nothing. From where he was, Draco couldn't tell if she had met the Muggle's gaze. How had Daria avoided being seen? They must have been very concentrated on the woman they were torturing… he remembered how Dolohov got when he was having fun. He struggled to hold back an involuntary shudder.

"And was this woman, Mrs. Malfoy, being tied down or held hostage by the perpetrators?" Macmillan's question was pointed. This was his retort to Narcissa's defense.

"No."

"Thank you, Miss Higgins." Macmillan looked up at the jury briefly and then returned to his desk in silence. The Muggle said nothing.

"The defense may present questions to the witness."

Greengrass stood up swiftly. She was wearing dark robes, and her heels clicked slightly as she crossed the space between her desk and the witness' area of the room.

"Miss Higgins," she began. "Did you at any moment see Mrs. Malfoy," she gestured towards her client. "Smile or laugh at the situation?"

The idea of his mother smiling or laughing was at this point so foreign that Draco had a hard time remembering what it looked like. Somehow, the more he thought about the mental image, the less it looked like his mother. He was disturbingly reminded of his aunt's smile, which was absolutely  _nothing_  like his mother's.

"No."

"Were the others around her?"

"They weren't all laughing, but most of them looked amused."

"And yet Mrs. Malfoy was not?"

"She was not."

Greengrass paused for a moment and then asked. "How would you describe Mrs. Malfoy's expression in that moment?"

"Tired, resentful, desperate." The adjectives escaped the woman's lips like a perfectly recited rhyme.

"Did she, perhaps, have a stick of this sort in her hand?" Greengrass produced her wand and held it up so that Daria could see it. The Muggle's vacant gaze fixed itself on the wand.

"No."

"Thank you." She put her wand away and turned to the Wizengamot. "You see, therefore, that my client was clearly not there out of free will or desire for violent, sadistic pleasure. There are many forms of coercion and blackmail; though Narcissa Malfoy was not being held hostage, she was the subject of severe blackmail on account of her son, whom Voldemort had already taken into his command against her will as a punishment for what he considered insubordination. She could not actively at against the violence she witnessed, nor could she refuse to participate when asked. She was an unwilling participant in these activities and cannot be held accountable for the crimes committed."

There were murmurs among the jury. Greengrass remained standing, her eyes sharp as she waited expectantly. On the other desk, Macmillan had the same expression, but Draco could tell that he wasn't pleased with the way the trial was going. The thought almost amused him.

Finally, Bill Weasley spoke up. "The jury would like to hear the accused speak."

Well, that was it. Draco threw his head back for a moment and stared up at the endless roof of the courtroom, were many torches hung in midair. He knew nothing would get his mother to speak, and if her being cleared depended on her speaking in her own defense, then she would be joining his father in Azkaban. When he finally forced himself to look back down, Greengrass had obviously reached the same conclusion. She had joined Narcissa's side, but was obviously hesitating to say anything to the Wizengamot that she might regret. She had had no previous contact with her client… there was no way she would be able to convince Narcissa to speak.

Macmillan almost seemed pleased. He stood up, his expression adamant. "Sir, the accused's continued refusal to give testimony should be evidence enough of her guilt and lack of reason. This trial cannot be prolonged any further; she has had her chance." One last try on Macmillan's part. He was looking directly at the Minister.

But Greengrass wouldn't allow it. "My client is unwell and unable to speak; the trials have proved too strenuous for her. I request an extension."

Macmillan was furious. "Three installments for a client with no defending witness?"

"On health grounds." Her expression was fierce.

They Heads of the Wizengamot had already agreed. Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed and nodded. "Extension scheduled for Friday of the following week at three o'clock. Next time, we shall give a verdict. I suggest you find a way to get your client to talk, Greengrass."

She said nothing, but gave a short nod. Draco could see triumph in her eyes. Draco almost felt sorry for her as he watched her leave her desk. She almost seemed convinced that his mother had a chance.

He was escorted down the rows of benches towards his mother, who merely moved calmly towards the doorway. Outside there was already a crowd gathering for some other hearing to be held in that courtroom, but the Wizengamot were already collecting their things to leave; he assumed it must be a hearing of less importance. Well, at least in trials the Malfoy name was still given importance, he thought with disgust.

They pushed passed the crowd of people outside, that murmured and whispered things about him and his mother as they passed. He clenched his jaw and said nothing, walking as quickly as he could. He felt a sudden fierce desire to be back home, even if all that was left of it was a towering, dark, empty house.

"Draco."

He started and turned to push the reporter away, but then realized he was staring down at the slender Astoria Greengrass. Even with heels, she was almost a head shorter than he was.

"What do you want?"

She smiled at him coolly as she joined him, walking towards the lift. "I wanted to arrange a meeting with you, after I meet with your mother this evening."

Good luck with that, he thought. Clearly she underestimated his mother's silence. And what did she want with him? He couldn't possibly testify on his mother's behalf… he wasn't a trustworthy source, even less now that his trial was scheduled to be next week, on Wednesday. But he only said "Why?"

Greengrass smiled. "I'll be representing you as well, next week."


	2. Chapter 2

He set down the glass with a thud. The mirror behind the bar rattled.

Outside, the moon had risen, shining hauntingly through the tall windows that were framed by heavy velvet drapes layered with dust. Draco sat at the bar in the corner, the glass of the old towering chandeliers clinking distantly overhead. It was said that Abraxas Malfoy would enchant the ceiling of the ballroom on special occasions, much as the ceiling of the Great Hall always was at Hogwarts. Now, however, it was only an enormous expanse of darkness reaching upwards, the only evidence of its ever ending being the lightly swinging chandeliers that glinted occasionally as the moonlight hit them.

The ballroom was nearly empty now, as was most of the house. Only an enchanted organ stood ominously in a corner, like a stubborn but dying man, and the shelves behind the bar corner held only a few dusty bottles of Superior Red, crowded forlornly against the wall, now abandoned by what used to be an admirable collection. Only scotch was drunk now, and those bottles stood on the bar at an arm's reach from Draco, who sat silent in the darkness.

If he closed his eyes, he knew, the sound of clinking chandeliers would become clinking glasses as toasts were made, and his grandfather would whisper  _Tojours pur_ for all those who would listen. The music would rise and quicken, along with the sound of sweeping satin dress robes, and Pansy Parkinson's hand would be on his knee, the low simper of her voice drowned out by his own heartbeat, his father's voice, always authoritative, always pressing, even over Cornelius Fudge's drunken laughter…

He poured himself another glass and ran a finger over the polished wood, pressing with force, though he knew it could never be dented, even with a hammer and anvil. Five years had passed since that room had heard music.

Five years.

Somewhere, a door shut with an echoing sound, and brisk footsteps rang in the corridors, growing closer. He straightened out of his reverie as lights sprang up from the torches in distant rooms, the halo of light growing brighter as the sound came closer, and it all but engulfed him as the steps came to a stop at the entrance of the vast ballroom.

He was in the corner nearest to the door. Raising a hand, he dimmed the torches and took a mouthful of his drink.

"Well, it's still large, though it's hardly as I remember it," said Astoria Greengrass as she looked around her. Still in her courtroom robes and high heeled shoes, the fatigue was barely visible under her mask of professional enthusiasm, but shone through slightly at the sight of the abandoned glory of the past.

He didn't know why he was surprised that she remembered it. She was, after all, a pureblood and a Greengrass. Every respectable Wizarding family had seen the Malfoy ballroom at least once. He looked at her from over his shoulder.

"How old were you?"

She turned to look at him. "Probably eleven or so."

He exhaled a sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, well… things look different as you grow older."

"They do indeed."

He looked down into his glass, running a finger over the edges. "No luck with Mother, then."

"No," she said calmly, and without waiting for an invitation, sat down two seats away, turned towards him, the mix of dim firelight and moonlight making her blue eyes shine with an eerie mix of silver and gold. "How long has she been this way?"

Draco shrugged. "About a year, maybe a bit less."

"And she doesn't talk to  _anyone_?"

"Well, I can't speak for the House-Elf, but I suppose she's even found a way around that. She doesn't say a word to me. Not that I'm complaining," he added. "It's certainly more pleasant than her constant nagging."

Greengrass seemed amused at that, and she looked up into the seemingly endless expanse above them. "It's quite a remote set of rooms you've led me to."

He said nothing for a minute. Then, after downing his drink, he responded. "I like it best here; further from  _them_." He jerked his head towards the windows, but he knew she understood what he meant. Two Aurors lurked in the gardens day and night, watching the entrances. Guards to go with the prison Malfoy Manor had become.

He didn't tell her that he also liked it best in that wing of the house because of the five years of separation it had from most activity; no snakes had slithered here, no dead eyes were staring up at him from its marble floors.

"I can't use your mother's silence as defense," Greengrass said suddenly, breaking the silence. "It's well known that she was in full possession of her abilities during the War, so she can't plead innocent on grounds of mental instability." She sighed. "And I think it's quite clear that she's not mad at the moment. It's more like she's just… given up."

Draco chuckled coldly, his eyes fixed on the dusty wine bottles huddled in the corner of the shelf. "Can you blame her?"

"It's too early to give up."

He almost laughed. Turning his gaze to her, he stared at her with snide amusement. "Really, Greengrass? You honestly think that my mother stands a chance against the Ministry? I don't blame her for giving up. There's no point to a trial anyway."

"Of course there is-"

"No, there isn't," he snapped. "Nobody in their right mind is ever going to vote for a Malfoy to be cleared of all charges. Everyone knows what's going to happen. We picked the wrong side; we lost. We were all fucked the moment our names were read out."

Greengrass didn't seem fazed. "I don't agree with you."

He snorted. "Then you're bloody naïve. How old are you, anyway? Isn't Daphne Greengrass your sister?"

She nodded. "I'm eighteen."

"How in Merlin's name did you get this job?"

She almost smirked. "The Ministry held a parallel Law Program on my Seventh year, and then I spent six months training. Three more months and I'll have a permanent position."

"So my mother and I are being defended by a kid fresh out of Hogwarts."

"At least it's a kid who actually graduated."

Draco snorted. "Touché."

She eyed him coldly. "You get what you get, Malfoy. You already tried a firm and they turned you down."

Not for lack of money, he thought angrily. Frightened, biased idiots. "And why didn't you?"

Greengrass shrugged. "You're an interesting case."

He smirked. "It was this or nothing, wasn't it?"

She remained silent, but held his gaze for a few seconds before looking away. "If we win these cases, then they'll be a stunning new addition to my résumé."

"Except you'll be unofficially labeled as a Death Eater accomplice."

"Nowadays all pureblood families who remained neutral default as Death Eaters. It wouldn't be much of a difference." She sighed, and reached for the briefcase she had left on the stool beside her. "Draco, we need to talk about this. Your trial's next week."

"So's my mother's. You should focus on her."

"I'll find a way to get her to talk, don't worry." The matter-of-fact way she said it was almost unnerving. "But we need to talk about you."

He sighed and turned on the stool so he was fully facing her. She had that hard, determined look in her eyes shining out from beneath her straight black hair.

"Greengrass, there's no point. You're wasting your time."

"No, I'm not. Carlotta Selwyn and her son Blaise were cleared with only one hearing despite their friendship with Death Eater families; it doesn't matter how people feel about you, it's about making a good defense."

"That's because Zabini's mom was actually smart enough to maneuver through the War without getting involved with either side. And they have proof of their neutrality. It doesn't matter what people think of them if their evidence is indisputable, but in my case-"

She ignored him. "I know you did most of the things on this list, if not all of them," she said, reaching into her briefcase to pull out a quill and many rolls of parchment. She pushed one of the rolls towards him. "What I want to know is the motivation behind it. I'm guessing your situation was similar to your mother's, but it's harder to work with, since you have the Mark on your arm."

He clenched his jaw as he glanced over the paper, and tried not to reach for his arm and scratch at it. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. His scorched skin tingled, as if to remind him that it existed. He pushed the parchment away from him; he already knew what it said.

"I was sixteen," he bit out. "But it's not like that's ever stopped them when it comes to chucking people into Azkaban."

"The Wizengamot is being more sensible nowadays."

Draco snorted. "Please. It's made up of half of what's left of the Order of the Phoenix. Most of them would've had me imprisoned even before the War started. My father had a habit of screwing people who didn't pretend to like him. Which were, as it happens, mostly current Ministry officials. He should have screwed them over properly." He added darkly.

"True," she replied. "But even they couldn't argue a well-made defense. I just need you to trust me."

"What do you want to know?" he asked warily. "If it's true? Well, it's true. All of it. Did my father force me into it?" Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Not directly. He obviously led my family into this situation, but he never said he wanted me to join them."

"So the Dark Lord did? Was it as a consequence of what happened in the Department of Mysteries?"

His face looked so pale in the mirror; in his mind, glass shattered and spread over the floor, mixing with specks of blood. Lucius Malfoy stared haggardly up at him: a million reddish reflections. "Not exactly," he said tersely. "Well, not entirely. I'm sure that it had something to do with it. But I got the impression that it was to tie me in properly."

"Tie you in?"

"Stop me from going to the Ministry with information. He knew that as soon as Scrimgeour was in office anyone with a Dark Mark  _anywhere_  would be brought in."

"So you became a Death Eater against your will."

He kept his eyes on the bar for a moment. That was where his father had set him down, from where he could look around the entire room. His first childhood memory had happened almost directly in front of him. He could remember his mother's exquisitely painted expression contort ever so slightly as she met his father's gaze, her fingers tight on his arm, her words escaping her lips in a silent storm of dismay only for his ears, in the shadow of his taller form. He had watched his father press a quick kiss to his mother's hair before murmuring some words to her; words his mother repeated to him in between soft lullabies she sang to him that night.. _._

"I was never going to disgrace the family name."

Astoria Greengrass seemed impatient. "That's not an answer."

He met her gaze darkly. "What makes you think I did any of it against my will?"

"I'm not stupid," she said. "Anyone can tell you're not Death Eater material, just by looking at you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were stupid and much too spoiled, but not nearly spoiled or stupid enough to want to have anything to do with them," she said. "I think you might have even sided with Dumbledore if you'd been brave enough. But that would have been stupid."

He just stared at her.

…

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

"I'll see myself out," Greengrass had said flatly at the end of their interview, and he had been left sitting on the barstool, watching her thin figure disappear into the corridor outside, not really sure what he thought of her.

 _Jonathan Greengrass is a clever businessman,_ his father had told him years ago, when they had passed the wizard with a dark moustache in Gringotts.  _He was not graced with vast fortune, as a result of his father's rotten gambling problem, but he has done well with his business and has kept his bloodline pure. I am glad to count him among our allies._

Greengrass. Draco hadn't had much of a relationship with the family otherwise. He remembered seeing the wizard with the moustache a couple of times in his father's study, along with other businessmen, but nothing in particular had struck him as interesting. His eldest daughter, Daphne, had been in his year at Hogwarts… one of Pansy's gang, who seemed rather airheaded, perhaps even more than Pansy herself. She had been relatively attractive, though, again, nothing about her had seemed very interesting.

He had moved to the large windows after a few minutes, and had pressed a cold hand against the cold glass, wiping off the dust to look outside. He had watched her leave through the tall gates, small but quick in her gait, ignoring the guards that stood near the entrance of the house. And he had found himself intensely confused about her motivations.

"You despise her, don't you," he stated, rather than asked, with a smirk. From a sofa near the fire, his mother silently glanced up at him from her book, before turning her eyes back to its pages.

They had moved most of the furniture that was left into the small sitting room on that wing of the house, and it looked to Draco like a strange collage of different moments of his life; the desk in a corner used to belong in the library, an old relic of Septimus Malfoy's Ministry work; the large couch in the center of the room had been pulled out of its place in one of the secondary guest rooms; the carpet he currently stood on had belonged in his nursery when he was a child… and his mother sat with her legs elegantly curled underneath her in the only piece of furniture that actually belonged in that room.

He glanced at the title of the book and rolled his eyes. One of the classic complicated-word novels she had forced him to read years ago. Moving towards the large couch, he set down his bottle of scotch on a small glass table.

The fire crackled.

"She's barely overage and has some bizarrely naïve notions about the way the world works," he drawled. Not that he expected her to answer. "But anyone defending this side of the argument has to be, I suppose. Still, years ago our money could have gotten us so much more."

He didn't know why he kept watching her, as if her grey eyes would ever leave the pages of the book, as if she would respond to him in some way. He couldn't explain why he kept analyzing every movement she made after he said something, as if anything could be a signal, some sort of sign that could be meant for him to understand…

There was a dull noise and a very short House-Elf appeared, carrying a tray with a glass of water, its feet barely avoiding tripping on the long, ragged cloth of the pillowcase it wore as clothing. Narcissa reached sideways and took the glass without so much as looking over the side of the book.

Draco sighed. "How long has she been here?"

The House-Elf stopped in its tracks and turned towards him, speaking in a high-pitched, female tone. "Just over two hours, sir. She came here right after leaving the study where she was entertaining Miss Greengrass, sir."

He snorted at the Elf's choice of words, but nodded. "How much longer is she going to stay here?"

"She usually asks for the glass of water right before bed, sir."

He gave another nod and leaned back onto the cushions. The Elf disappeared. His mother sipped her water in silence.

"Is this some kind of…  _thing_ , where you just… enjoy life before you spend it in Azkaban?" he asked in a low voice. The questions bubbled up inside him as always, pushing their way up to the surface, threatening to spill out of him like vomit.

Silence.

"You know, you'd be saving everyone lots of time if you just said you were guilty," he said, almost angrily. "Do you know how fucked up it is to go to courtrooms just to watch you sit there? All the shit I had to sell-" he stopped, clamping his lips shut, closing his eyes, almost wishing that he could feel her disapproving glare on him at his cursing. But all he could feel was his shaking fists, and the distinct feeling that for all Astoria Greengrass' inexperienced hopes, he was only torturing himself.

There was a noise and his eyes flew open, his head turning sharply. And he said nothing as Narcissa Malfoy stood up from her chair, carefully setting her book and her glass on the table, and silently slipped away towards her new room nearby.

Screw her.

What did he care about her, anyway. It's not like she had ever been much use to him.

It was just… everything was so damn _silent_.

With a sigh of frustration, he got up from the couch and made his way to the corridor outside.

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

Why were those words engraved in his mind like a mantra? Why was he standing alone in a dimly lit corridor, still in his robes from the hearing, still unshaven, still holding that damn glass in his hand like an idiot, mumbling old refrains like a bumbling fool?

And why had the feeling of crystal shards being encrusted in his face come to mind so vividly?

"There needs to be some kind of redeeming action," Greengrass had insisted. "Even the act of  _not_  doing something you could have done, or holding back…"

He found himself going down the steps of the spiraling staircase, the torches lighting up as he moved away from the old, once festive wing of the house. He felt the unpleasant tug of wands being pulled away from his fingers, arms on his shoulders pulling him away, searing pain on his face from a million glass particles…

Running his free hand over his unhurt face, he tried to smooth away the phantom pain. In front of him, the old corridor was darkened, its torches un-enchanted, and from the shadows near the purple walls, old statues stared down at him with blind eyes. He had never seen them move, but in his dreams as a child they had reached out to grab him with their stony arms, the bright lanterns in the garden outside casting their towering shadows over his body.

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

Was the old tapestry still there, somewhere? That old refrain his father had murmured to himself every time a person he disliked passed him in the street, or in the Ministry, or in a party? It had once hung in his father's study like a shining banner of everything they stood for. His father had often looked up at it, as if seeking for guidance from his ancestors.

And where was it now? The statues looked down at him; they looked angry. Draco Malfoy, defended by a Greengrass, facing a court full of Muggle-borns and blood traitors… and the ever-present, ever-infuriating voice of Harry Potter ringing loudly in the drawing room ahead, the only proof, one of the only three witnesses who were still alive…

"There needs to be  _something_ …" Greengrass almost looked like she  _knew_. But he would never, ever, ever explain, even though the non-existent scars on his face would sting his skin forever.

Again, he heard the crashing of shattering glass, saw the bright light move towards his eyes, and the statue had finally reach out to grab him, press him against the wall, choke him in its stony grip…

…and speak to him in Theodore Nott's deep, rasping voice.

"Good to see you again, Malfoy."

Draco gasped, straining against the arm that pressed his neck against the wall. His wand was in his pocket; his limbs immobilized. The sound of breaking glass had been a mix of his glass of scotch shattering against the floor and the window exploding as Nott broke through it.

"How-" he choked out, straining against the invisible cords that rendered him useless against the tall, thin man. "Did you-"

"Break in?" Nott's breath was a warm snarl against his ear, his wand pressed painfully against Draco's chest. Behind him, Draco could see two figures against the light of the gardens outside. "You've got a shit ton of enemies, Malfoy. It's amazingly easy to get to you; almost a pleasure to do, really."

He could feel his wand pressing against his elbow, and he concentrated all his will on breaking that arm free. There was still magic in him; hexes didn't last forever.

"I bet you already know why I'm here," Nott said in his ear, a smirk spread across his hollow cheeks. "I saw the Greengrass girl pay you a visit earlier; I hope you didn't tell her any secrets of mine. We've been on good terms so far, Malfoy… I don't think you want to change that."

"I'm not negotiating with you-" Draco wheezed as the elbow embedded itself deeper into his trachea.

"I don't give a fuck, Malfoy," Nott spat. "'Cause  _I'm_  not negotiating, either. It's a simple case of testifying or not. If you say a word about what happened with Scrimgeour, I'll have someone kill you before you even leave the courtroom. Believe me; it isn't hard to find someone willing to do it."

"Don't threaten me-"

He couldn't break free from the hex. His arm was throbbing with pain from the effort.

"I can, and I will, Malfoy. If you know what's good for you and your mother, you'll keep quiet. I'm not going to Azkaban. Still not convinced that I can do whatever I bloody want?" He moved away slightly, turning so that Draco could recognize the figures behind the window properly. "Take a look."

Draco squinted against the full blast of the lights from outside, but he recognized the figures standing there immediately. He grit his teeth as he recognized the two Ministry-assigned Aurors standing there.

"It isn't hard to pay people off if it means hurting a Malfoy," Nott hissed. Draco could hear the smile in his voice. "I hope this helped you comprehend the gravity of your situation."

He shoved Draco into the wall, hard, and then strode out of the corridor through the empty frame of the window, glass shards cracking under his boots.

Draco winced at the impact of his head against the stone wall, and it took him a minute to recover from the blow. By the time he had managed to straighten up again, head ringing, and felt the cords loosening around his body, it was too late. He was alone in the corridor again, surrounded by the glaring statues. The garden outside was deadly silent.

…

"Please extend your arms, stand straight and face me," the guard said mechanically. The wand hovered in the air in front of him and a halo of blue light engulfed his body and then disappeared.

"You may pass."

Draco straightened his robes and followed another grey-clad guard through the stone doorway into a larger hall that was lit with shining white lanterns. The light seemed to make all colors grey, and Draco found himself staring at his own pale, washed-out complexion against the glass window of the visitors' hall.

Azkaban had changed very much in the last few years, or so he had heard. Draco had not set foot on Azkaban before the War had ended; in his Fifth Year, when his father had been imprisoned, his mother had forbidden him from visits, stating that it would have disturbed him too much. Maybe she was right, he had to admit grudgingly. Even now, the dead, stone walls of the place made him shiver, mostly from the thought that he was likely to see much more of it, daily, for the rest of his life.

Even more so did the sight of his haggard, unshaven father sitting on the other side of the glass, his eyes looking up at him with that strange look he always seemed to have reserved only for his son.

"Hello Father," he found himself saying.

Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat before speaking. "Son. I trust all is going smoothly? Is all well with your mother?"

"She's still not saying anything," Draco said coldly.

"Yes, well, aside from that."

Draco could feel the eyes of the guards standing around the room. He was the only visitor there that day; maybe it was the oddness of the early hour. Day and night seemed far-off concepts in the grey void that the Island appeared to be.

He felt as if his voice rang about the entire prison every time he spoke. "There'll be a verdict for her next week," he said flatly. "My trial starts next week, too."

"You must say that you were put under the Imperius spell."

"Father, they have ways to figure that out now."

"Yes, well, you  _were_ , though… that one time Bellatrix-"

"It doesn't count, Father," he snapped.

They stared at each other from across the glass. Draco could see his own reflection mirrored exactly over his father's face. The eyes were the same color. It was uncanny.

"Draco," Lucius said, after taking a deep breath. "You hardly had the same involvement I did; the same goes for your mother. No matter the outcome, you will not be sentenced the same as I was."

"I have the Mark, Father."

Was it just him, or did his father's hand move involuntarily towards his forearm? "That shouldn't matter. Tell them whatever it is they want to hear, and they'll let you off on a lower sentence. A few years in Azkaban… it's not ideal, but it could be worse. There is only one thing you must remember, Draco."

Draco said nothing.

"Don't pick a side," said Lucius in a low voice. "Never pick a side. It saved us in the First War; it shall save us in the Second."

Draco scowled, and took a breath before speaking. "Theodore Nott paid me a visit last night."

" _Shut up_ ," Lucius said immediately, his eyes burning with anger. "Did you not hear what I just said? What did I just say, Draco?"

He was eight years old again, and memorizing the Royal Rules of Etiquette. His father sat on an armchair on the dais of his study, and he stood erect on the floor beneath him, repeating his father's words.

"Don't pick a side," he repeated in a low voice. From the other side of the glass, he saw his father's approval. The eight year old breathed a sigh of relief.

" _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper,"_ his father said, his voice ringing both in reality and in his memories. "Purity will always conquer."


	3. Chapter 3

Ernie Macmillan pushed past the small crowd of wizards at the pub entrance, a cloak on his arm as he called out his order to the bartender. It was Friday night, and few Ministry worers settled for the pu at work when more promising places for recreation were available. But it was late, he was tired, and his girlfriend had gone off to France for the weekend in search of a good business deal with a french Magical History writer. And he could use a nice drink at the end of an exhausting week.

As he rested against the bar, debating about whether he should stay there or move to one of the tables, he caught sight of a lonely figure sitting in the farthest corner of the room. Eyebrows raising with surprise, he straightened up and moved in its direction.

"Astoria Greengrass in the Ministry pub," he said with a grin. " _Drinking_... I never thought I'd see the day."

She had the grace to give him a small, tired smile. "It's just coffee," she murmured, holding the mug up as evidence.

Ernie sat down in front of her and glanced at the briefcase on the chair next to her and the folded-up  _Daily Prophet_  that exhibited  _Who's standing up for the Malfoys in court?_ with a large photograph of Astoria leaving the Ministry. "So it was that kind of week, was it." He pulled the newspaper towards him and eyed the picture. "Could be worse," he remarked.

She shot him a look.

"I still don't think either of them are worth the effort," he continued, ignoring her expression as he set the newspaper back in place. "You should have just-"

"I don't need you to lecture me, Macmillan," she cut in coldly.

"Okay, fine. No business, then." He fell silent as the bartender set down a drink in front of him. "You just missed your sister," he added, taking a sip once the man left. "She came looking for you."

Astoria closed her eyes and reached up to rub her temple. "That's just as well," she replied tiredly. "I have nothing to say to her."

"Are you sure?"

She looked up and met his eyes; his expression had softened. She let out a resigned sigh. "Damn you Macmillan, you're so...  _nice_."

Ernie chuckled, but his eyes remained grave. "I just worry about you. I can tell none of this is easy."

"Nothing's easy for anyone nowadays," she said in a low voice. "Everyone's all... tied up in their parents' mistakes."

"Or their own."

Astoria shook her head, sitting back in her chair. There were dark circles under her eyes. "Usually, one's a product of the other."

"That's not enough to clear all the guilt, though."

She smiled wryly. "I thought we weren't going to talk about work."

"Astoria, there will be other cases. You only just started; this one is too laced with politics and old sentiment... it's not good to begin with a case that's doomed to failure." His mouth curved in a dry smile. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm opposing you in this one."

"I didn't take it because I thought it would be a good starting point," she cut in, pushing her coffee to a side, frowning. "I took it because I want a job, and not one that involves me taking notes in my father's office for the rest of my life." She sighed again and pressed her hands to her face, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes. "If I give up now, then I'm proving them right and I should have followed Daphne's footsteps the way they always assumed I would."

Ernie looked at her sadly. "You won't be able to win this one, Greengrass."

Astoria lowered her hands and gazed at him grimly. "I don't have a choice. I'll make do with what I have; which really isn't a lot given this Malfoy tendency to never say a  _word_  of what they're actually thinking..."

"You don't have much time left," Ernie said after finishing his drink. He leaned forwards in his chair, looking deep into her eyes. "Astoria, I respect you, and I do think you're great at this job; you have a lot of potential. I might even wish you won these cases, if it weren't for the people involved. You deserve better than to represent a family like that."

"They're not that different from my family," she replied darkly.

"Your family wasn't responsible for hundreds of deaths."

"Neither were the Malfoys," Astoria put in. "Ernie, you come from a very different branch of pureblood families than I do, so you couldn't possibly understand. I don't expect you to. But the War was hard on everyone; our branch had the unpleasant luck of already being in the spotlight when the Dark Lord came into power... True, that power might have been handed to him by quite a few of those families, but very few of them threw themselves willingly into the War. Most families made the only choice they had left in order to stay alive. I'm not saying it excuses them... but I do think I understand."

"I don't think murderers should walk free."

"Neither do I. But I do think their children should."

...

_Dear Mr. Lucius Malfoy,_

_I sincerely apologize for reaching you like this, sir, but I couldn't find a better way. It's too hard to get a Floo permit, and you know life's been hard since Sutherland passed. I wrote to you earlier this year asking for instructions regarding the plantation here down South that's been under the honorable Malfoy name for five generations; I know the business suffered with the War, but I do hope production hasn't stopped all together? As always, I've made do with what little we get out here, and I managed to get a decent harvest, but we never heard back from you after delivering them at the warehouse up North. Wages usually followed our deposits, but two days found the Fluxweed gone, and we've received nothing for nearly three months now..._

_Sir, you have always honored us with admirably prompt wages, so it feels ill-mannered to ask anything of you after years of generosity... and I wouldn't dare bother you with a farmer's common needs, but sir, life has gotten hard and we simply can't keep up production with so little income. Also I must mention, Matthew says he caught sight of Travis Mulpepper's lad nearby some days ago; it's been ages, but you remember the trouble they used to give us. I would very much appreciate if the problem might be sorted out as soon as you have time for us: I m sure you are a very busy man and occupied in much more important manners. Here in the country we always praise your generosity, and as always, wish you the best._

_Your humble servant,_

_Sally Coulson._

Draco cursed under his breath. Setting aside the parchment, he examine the Ministry seal on the corner of his already opened envelope. So they were checking his mail now.

"Ollie," he called out, his voice still sounding rough from sleep. "Where did you get this?"

The small House-Elf looked up from where it was dusting the old wooden dresser in the corner. "The Ministry Guards at the door gave it to Ollie, Sir," it said in a high, squeaking voice. "Is Master not pleased, Sir?"

"It's all right," he muttered, waving the elf away and scowling at the envelope. If the Aurors knew, then Nott probably knew, too.

He needed more firewhiskey. There were a few bottles left in the ballroom, somewhere.

Sitting up on his bed, he rubbed his eyes at the sudden onslaught of bright sunlight streaming from the window; the startling green of the world outside seemed surreal when contrasted against the opaque colors of Draco's bedroom. The small hint of white from his sheets seemed to shine from beneath the dark velvet colors and the forest green embroidered pillows.

He had fallen asleep in his clothes again, last night. The stiff collar of his shirt felt uncomfortable against his neck, but he ignored it. At least he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of dressing again for the day. "Draco, the trial's this week," his mind scolded him in Astoria Greengrass' businesslike tone. "You really ought to look somewhat presentable."

His shoes lay tumbled over each other on the corner of the Porlock fur carpet. He slid is feet into them and walked out of his bedroom, the letter still crumpled in his hand.

The ballroom was too far, and he had more important things to do that morning, he acknowledged, holding back an annoyed groan as he strode tiredly into the sitting room, where his mother sat beside a table full of almost completely untouched breakfast.

He dropped the letter next to her platter of bacon with the writing angled towards her and took a teacup, draining its contents without a word. His mother ignored him. He felt his collar pressing against the bruises on his neck as he swallowed the scalding tea and wondered, before stopping himself, if she had noticed the angry purple mark Nott's arm had left on his skin.

Of course she didn't. The burning sensation gave way to the bitter taste of the tea.

"We're still getting Father's mail," he remarked to the silent room. And then added, "He asked about you again, last time."

Narcissa had only gone to visit Lucius in Azkaban once, when Draco had practically taken her arm and pulled her along with him... well, that was the only way she ever went anywhere out of the house, anyway. While he had tried to hold a calm conversation with his father, she had remained as unresponsive as ever, her eyes cold and distant, oblivious to her husband's attempts to speak with her.

Draco never wanted to see that look in his father's eyes again.

Was she angry at her husband? Merlin knew she had enough reason to be, but he had never seen his mother truly angry at his father... frightened, yes. Frustrated, yes. But so angry that she would refuse to speak to him?

Well, she had never done this with him, either... he pushed the thoughts away again.

He sighed and set the teacup down on the tray with a clatter, turning heel and leaving the warm room to walk out onto the biting chill of the shadowed corridor. "My cloak," he snapped at Ollie, who lurked nearby, and once it had been pulled over his shoulders, he found himself walking down the staircase again, almost retracing the steps he had taken some nights ago.

The statues in the hallway seemed to watch him with even more hostility as he crossed through the hallway once more. They had lost the ghoulish air they had had last time he had seen them, almost as if they had resigned themselves to the reality of their inanimate nature; but now they crouched on either side of him, resentment emanating from their eyes in clouds of tension that were almost more menacing than the shaky liveliness they had had the other night. If it weren't for the bright sunlight that seeped through the glass of the tall windows, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to stand it; as it was, he was thankful that his childhood nightmares hadn't involved much lighting.

The morning breeze stirred his hair and clothes as it blew through the gaping hole in the window; he hadn't bothered to fix it after Nott had left. What was the point, anyway?

He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on the arch ahead of him. Why the hell had he even had to be there that night, when he had been able to pick out Theodore Nott's thin figure among the cloaked wizards entering the Manor? If he'd only hidden his presence a bit more...

But even as he crossed the arch into the drawing room he could feel the bile in his throat and see Rufus Scrimgeour's glassy eyes, fierce and angry even in death, staining his mind's eye just like the splatters of his blood had stained the curtains.

He clutched his cloak tighter around his body and tried to banish the invasive thoughts as he strode across the dusty floors. The marble fireplace stood like a ghostly throne at the end of the room, and he could hear the pieces of glass crack underneath his shoes as he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the arch that led into the Entrance Hall. Ollie had refused to clean there; perhaps the Elf's instincts whispered the deaths that had taken place on that very floor. He could still remember his mother's shaking hand when she had finally waved the remains of the old chandelier off the floors; she had never quite managed to get rid of all the glass. It lay among the clumps of dust and cobwebs like many tiny little graves... many bodies, never properly put to rest.

Somehow, he managed to calm himself by the time he was at the edge of the house. The cloud of darkness he had felt pressing around him seemed to fade away slightly as he left the drawing room behind, and he felt like he could breathe again. The large, dark ornate doors of Malfoy Manor towered over him, and he took a deep breath as he stepped forwards and watched them swing open at his touch with a low, rumbling groan.

Immediately, he found himself face to face with an Auror, his dark robes in stark contrast to the bright world behind him.

"You can't go out, Malfoy."

Draco felt rage stir deeply within him. He couldn't help it; his hand grasped his wand through his robes and he wanted nothing more than to curse the wizard's round, sneering face into the crushing, hard stone walls. He could see the derision in the Auror's face, and he loathed the way he had to swallow down the accusations and the fury he felt... the crushing dark cloud that had risen in the drawing room reached out with creeping tendrils, trying to snatch his heart.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want," he spat, pushing past the Auror. The cloud had almost reached him; the bright lights of the walkway ahead promised some relief from the sudden urge he had to-

An invisible barrier slammed him backwards towards the door, and the impact made his head spin. For a moment he was in darkness, his mind desperate to stay afloat. The Auror's mocking eyes were almost distant; if only he could be like those pieces of glass... buried, buried...

Buried in his flesh like the chandelier shards.

The invisible scars burned.

"I've been told Malfoy can't leave the premises," said the Auror's voice, distant, almost swallowed up in the deep waters of his memory. His body was stiff; could the man really not see that he couldn't think? "You're under house arrest. That's why your Floo privilege's disabled."

Draco blinked. The parchment was pushed towards his face. Focus, focus. It almost sounded like his father's voice.  _Focus, boy. Focus!_

"Read again, tosser," he somehow managed to spit out. His voice almost sounded normal. He could feel his hand again, his palm pressed painfully against his wand. "It says  _Narcissa_  Malfoy. I'm free to go wherever I damn please."

He straightened, adjusting his cloak, stepping forwards. The Auror didn't pull up the barrier again; he could feel the sunlight warming his skin as he reached the bottom of the steps. The cloud dispersed. "For now."

Turning sharply, he met the Auror's gaze that was drenched in derision. He could feel the loathing shining through; hadn't Nott filled these man's pockets with gold only a few nights ago? And he still had the nerve to look down on a Malfoy, as if he somehow had the higher ground.

"The Wizarding World wants you dead, Malfoy," said the Auror, almost as if he read his mind. "And if so, who am I to deny them?"

Threats. So many of them came to mind...  _I'll report you to the Ministry_ ,  _I'll find out where you live and you'll regret crossing me, You'd better watch out next time you walk by my window_... all so fake, so petty, so  _You wait 'til my Father hears about this! The Wizarding World wants you dead._

_Merlin knows I almost agree with them._

So he said nothing.

...

"We're clos- What in Merlin's name are  _you_  doing here?"

Augustus Mulpepper stared at him with wide, pale eyes through the crack in the doorway. Knockturn Alley was deserted, and the only noise echoing around the old stone buildings was from the old papers, rubble and rubbish from closed businesses rattling and shuffling around the street. Nobody had bothered to fix the ruins of the War in that corner of the Wizarding World. If anything, there had been considerable effort put into forgetting that it existed.

"You know why I'm here," Draco said in a low voice. He kept his gaze hard as he watched the shorter, prematurely gray-haired wizard look around the alley, almost looking terrified.

"Are you absolutely mental?" he said furiously. "Do you know how bad you're making this establishment look by standing here?"

"Oh, because you're doing so well," Draco replied sarcastically. "I have to speak to Travis."

"Bugger off, boy," Augustus said, eyes narrowing. "I don't want the likes of you in front of my store. Mulpepper's Apothecary stayed clean durin' the War, I don't want you messin' with our reputation, gettin' your slimy Malfoy hands all over it."

With a growl, Draco stepped forward and pushed the door, hard. Augustus fell back, his sickly form too weak to hold the door against him. He fell back, face contorted with rage.

"You should have thought about that before you sent your brother to steal our product," Draco said.

"Well, well... if it isn't Lucius' boy."

The shop was almost stiflingly small; the roughly carved shelves seeming to shiver where they stood in the dimly candle-lit room. Various jars and bottles glinted, painstakingly polished clean, all around the room, and the distinct apothecary smell was almost overwhelming; even the small, grimy window on the highest corner of one of the walls didn't seem to help clear the odor. And on the opposite side of the counter sat an old man with a wrinkled hat, smoking a cigar that only added to the already rancid smell of the place.

"I've got to admit," said Travis Mulpepper, his yellow teeth smiling at him from behind the smoke of his cigar. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to walk in here all on your own. What with daddy in prison, and all."

"Just because my father isn't here doesn't mean we're going to consent to blatant robbery," Draco responded stiffly.

Travis chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure the  _distinguished_ Malfoy name disapproves of any sort of criminality. I bet your father was a  _shining_  example of all that is righteous in our society, and he must be  _honored_  to have his little boy uphold his high standards."

In the other corner of the shop, Augustus laughed nasally. Draco forced himself to remain calm. The Mulpeppers had always been scum, anyway.

"I'm not here to talk about my father," he said. "I'm here to tell you to stop stealing from our plantations down South."

The old man grinned and stretched, swinging his legs over the counter, his boots caked with dry mud that broke off and soiled the already dusty wood. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"It might have taken a while, but we got word of the Fluxweed harvest disappearing," Draco said, his eyes fixed on the old man's eyes that seemed slightly glazed over. "I'm not an idiot; you've been trying to steal from our business for as long as I remember and people saw one of your people lurking around our plantations. I'm not here to play games."

"I'm sorry," said Travis, drawing deeply from his cigar before speaking again, exhaling a rancid cloud of smoke in his direction. "I suppose we just assumed you'd have no need for Fluxweed anymore. What's it used for a lot? Oh, yeah... Polyjuice Potion. I don't think the Ministry's letting you Malfoys anywhere near that sort of ingredient... I don't think anyone's gonna get anywhere near the Malfoy business, anyway. So I must say, I don't really get what all the fuss is about."

Draco ground his teeth. "Give me back what you stole, or-"

"Or what?" the old wizard slowly lowered his legs from the counter and stood up, dropping his smoking cigar on the floor and moving towards him. He stood slightly hunched over, his eyes shining greedily in the dim candlelight. "Or you'll pull some strings in the Ministry? Or you'll call all your powerful friends in high places? Or..." he coughed, spitting phlegm on the floor. Augustus stirred in his corner, moving towards the worn mop that stood nearby. "...maybe you'll give me a nice spot of gold to help clean up the place, and we'll all part ways as friends, and you'll have your Fluxweed?" He chuckled.

"No, little Draco," he smiled at Draco. He could see rusty metal in between his yellow teeth. "No, I know Gringotts is out of bounds for the Malfoys now. It was all over the papers... Augustus might be a bit barmy, but he can read, and it's no secret to anyone that you ain't got nothing to show for yourself. So I'd suggest that you get your pathetic little arse out of my shop and crawl back to your rotting cave in Wiltshire, and enjoy it while you can. 'Cause there's nothing you can say or do that's going to make anyone forget what you are or what you done." His smile widened, and he reached into his pocket to pull out another cigar. "And frankly, it's gonna be quite a fucking pleasure to watch."


	4. Chapter 4

"Thanks for agreeing to meet me here."

Draco raised a pointed eyebrow, his eyes cold. "You didn't leave much space for discussion."

They were sitting in a large, empty office that had been packed with old furniture, the soft layer of dust not quite covering the cracks in the paint of the desks, chairs and shelves piled around them. The room was windowless, and the only light came from a worn chandelier that hung low from the ceiling, throwing light onto the faded maps of Great Britain that had been charmed onto the walls. From beyond the closed door, the deserted hallways in that abandoned corner of the Ministry lay silent.

Draco couldn't help but wonder if she had chosen that place because he might find it somewhat familiar.

"I know," she said with a slight grimace, though there was some sincerity lacking in her tone. "I've just been busy. I thought a different place might be a bit refreshing for you, actually."

"It's always refreshing to be chased around the Ministry by the press," he replied sarcastically.

Astoria met his eyes for a brief second, and she actually almost looked remorseful. For a moment he almost regretted his words. There was so much exhaustion in her blue eyes that it was impossible for him not to notice, despite the concerted effort she seemed to have put in covering it up; her elegant robes and professional manner could only hide so much.

"You don't work  _here,_ do you?" he snapped quickly, turning his eyes away from her to the dusty room around them.

She almost smiled, ignoring his tone. "No, thought at times I rather wish I did. The cubicles upstairs can get irritating…" she trailed off. Taking a breath, she met his gaze with what could only be described as determination. Draco suddenly felt a bit like a Gringotts vault that she was set on breaking into. "You know why you're here."

He avoided the subject, letting a smirk slip onto his expression instead. "You're sick of the Manor because of all the time you're wasting there trying to get Mother to talk." For some reason, the smirk didn't feel quite as satisfactory as he remembered. "It's not going to work, Greengrass."

" _Really_ ," her stare was persistent. "Get over yourself, Malfoy." She slid a small pile of rolls of parchment onto the old table. Something about the claws carved onto the corners of the desk made Draco wonder if the desk might have been an old donation of his grandfather's; if so, it was rather fitting to find it there, among all the ruined furniture of the Ministry of Magic. "I wouldn't be so busy if you just made enough of an effort to collaborate in order to get me  _something_  to work with."

He made an effort to keep his fingers from curling into fists; the persistence in her eyes was piercing, and he pushed away the dark cloud that threatened to overwhelm him. Why wouldn't she give up? He ground his teeth. "I don't understand you, Greengrass. "

"I don't understand you either," Astoria replied sharply. "You try so hard to make it look like you don't care about any of this. But here you are, in the Ministry, on a Monday morning, meeting me. I know there's  _something._ "

The sound of bodies being dragged through his front door… he flinched involuntarily, and tried to disguise it behind a scowl. Could she hear the shrieks of his aunt echoing around the ceiling overhead the way he could? "Don't flatter yourself. The only reason I'm not at home right now is because, miraculously, the place is even more sickening than the Ministry and I guess I should just appreciate what few days are left for me to  _roam about_." He couldn't help spitting the last words out, remembering the Auror's triumphant glare as he walked away from his own home.

"I heard you went to Knockturn Alley."

He didn't even have time to disguise his expression. The anger bubbled up inside him, his hands curled into fists before he could avoid it. The room spun around him for a brief second, and he wanted to gag at the memory of Travis Mulpepper's rancid breath in his face.  _A pleasure to watch_. He couldn't trust himself to speak; he could feel his lips trembling against each other.

"Who the  _hell_  do you think you are? Is everyone in this bloody place a damn spy?"

A minute later, he realized he hadn't said a word. His lips were still pressed together, and from the other side of the table, Astoria still watched him expectantly.

"So?" he let the word slide out of his mouth slowly. He was afraid his voice might shake.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I just hope you're not doing anything stupid." She tilted her head slightly to the newspaper that sat on a corner of the table. "It was on the  _Prophet,_  just so you know."

Of course it was. "It wouldn't make a difference, anyway." He looked away.

Astoria took a deep breath. The room seemed to buzz with silence.

"Okay... look..." she said, finally. "I apologize. It was none of my business." She pulled open a roll of parchment and took a quill from her purse. "Last time, we stopped just before The Battle of Hogwarts; do you think we could continue from there?"

He gave a nod, and leaned back in his seat, moving his eyes away from her. There was something about her that could somehow be unnerving.

As if she could tell, she kept her head bent over her notes, her short, dark hair framing her face like a shining black curtain. "Where were you on the 1st of May, 1998?"

It was amazing how some dates just  _stuck._ The only other date he knew by heart so clearly was his birthday, and even that day seemed to pale in comparison to the heavy presence of the day before the Dark Lord had been defeated. Draco remembered it in excruciating detail.

He didn't  _have_  to tell her anything, to tell the truth. There was, after all, nothing she could gain for his defense in the story; if anything, he was more likely to be adding to his list of crimes. And yet...

"I was in London most of the afternoon," he began in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the rusty curves of the iron chandelier that hung above. "Even though my parents and A-... and Bellatrix Lestrange, and anyone who had anything to do with the Potter fiasco was confined in the house, he wanted me out."

And he had been glad to leave, despite the circumstances. He knew his father would never dare to tell anyone the blame his son held for the situation; he knew his mother had probably intervened in keeping Aunt Bellatrix quiet, but it didn't mean he was exempt from the blame altogether. His father certainly made sure he was aware of exactly  _how_  he had ensured the ruin of the Malfoy family.

But he wasn't going to tell Greengrass that. She knew nothing of the way he had been pushed forward to look at Potter's bloated, deformed face. Nobody in the room was present to tell the tale, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell it. Especially not to her. She didn't hear his aunt's accusing shrieks, didn't know how it had felt to have her press him down into the broken glass with bloody fingers while his mother screamed.

She wouldn't know.

"It was a sort of punishment, again." His voice sounded hollow. "Then again, I suppose it always was when I was sent out with orders from him. Mother would nearly go mad." The crazed, fear-driven madness was so much more preferable to whatever madness lay behind her dead silence.

"What did he send you to do?"

"It was some sort of..." Draco frowned. The light burned is eyes; he turned them to the humidity-stained corner of the wall, and sighed with frustration. "I don't know. I can't remember. I think it had something to do with some person Travers had under the Imperius Curse; there was some suspicion that he might have broken free."

"Zachary Dippet, probably," Astoria remarked, even as her quill sped over the parchment. "He was cleared of all charges in the end."

Draco nodded shortly, dismissing the information. "Well, I didn't do much. Travers was gone, so Mulciber took over. He didn't want me in the way, so he let the others do the work. It-" He fell silent. Astoria's eyes snapped up to his face.

He cursed himself. It was the same group, minus Yaxley, that had taken down Scrimgeour. Nott's thin, cruel face sprung up in his memory.

"What about it?"

Why did she have to be so clever? He busied his eyes with studying the distant lines of the map on the wall so he could avoid her gaze. The lies just couldn't seem to form with her watching him. "Nothing."

That didn't fool her. "Draco, if you have any names,  _any names at all-_ "

"I don't," he said shortly.

"-it could save you. You just need to give a name."

"I'm not giving any names."

Her eyes blazed. "Draco, this could be your one chance at-"

"At what?" he said bitterly. "Getting cleared? We both know a name isn't going to save me from anything."

"It might at least give you a chance."

He snorted with derision and then shook his head. "I'm not ratting people out. I'm not picking a side."

"It's not-" her voice rose with frustration, and he turned his gaze back onto her only to find her biting her lip, her eyes boring into the writing before her. He watched coldly as she clenched her jaw and then directed a forced smile at him. Maybe the tired look in her eyes was supposed to convince him; but Lucius Malfoy's forceful presence was stark against his brain, and he could feel it much more strongly than the irritation he was causing her.

Astoria crossed her fingers over the table, her quill still between them. "All right," she said calmly. "So what do you want me to do?"

Draco shrugged. "The truth is, you get more out of this than I do."

She looked at him in confusion and he smirked. "If you put up a convincing case, you'll at least get some respect from Macmillan and those other blundering idiots. I'm not trying to be an arse; like I said, it's not as if I have anything better to do. I'll answer your questions and I'm sure you're clever enough to find something to do with it, being a Ravenclaw." There was some derision in his voice at that, though it faded quickly into a darker tone. "But I'm not going to give out names, or anything like that, because it's not like it's going to make a difference."

"But  _justice_."

He raised his eyebrows. "Like I'm getting any of that."

She sighed. He wondered if she secretly wanted to strangle him. Something about the way she looked at him made him think that she was probably considering it. "Fine. I won't insist on you giving names, but I would like you to try and be a bit more proactive. I need to know how you feel about the things that happened, not just the facts. If there really isn't anything that you did that could help, then at least let me put some emotion into it."

"There isn't anything."

"I know you weren't happy with the way things were going, that much is clear."

Avoiding her gaze, he shifted in his seat, studying the claws carved onto the corner of the desk. His voice was a murmur. "If I wanted to talk about my  _feelings,_ I'd just go to the Mental Ward at St. Mungo's."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile. "Yeah, but you see, I don't think you'd ever stoop to that,  _being a Malfoy_." Was she mocking him for what he said about her House? "Honestly, though. Be stubborn as you like, I'm not letting this case fail the way everyone seems to expect it will. I know there's a solution somewhere; don't think I can't tell that you're holding things back."

She leaned closer, and he couldn't help it... he met her eyes. The irritation was gone, but her expression sent through him a thrill of something that was almost fearful excitement. "Now, you're going to continue your story. And don't leave anything out." Her lips twitched into a defiant smile. "And there's one thing you haven't been counting on... I'm not a Ravenclaw. I'm a Slytherin. And I'm winning us this case."

...

His head was pounding.

He had left the dusty hallways of that abandoned corner of the Ministry to walk into the shining, polished part of it that was crawling with busy witches and wizards. He had left Astoria sitting at that desk still, scribbling away at the parchment with a kind of fierceness that almost made him worry for her quill's fate. He wasn't sure what she was writing about. All he had really done was describe what had happened on the day of the Battle.

"So you went to the Room of Requirement on your father's orders?"

"Yes."

"I thought he didn't want you being sent on missions for the Dark Lord."

"He didn't." He had rubbed his eyes tiredly, remembering the desperate note in his father's voice. "At that point, we didn't think it would be so hard to leave the castle. We didn't know most of the students would stay; the amount of Death Eaters he gathered was mostly for show, I think. He was under the impression that the biggest resistance would be Potter and his friends... he expected Snape and the Carrows to take down McGonagall and what professors were left. The Order of the Phoenix was a surprise. Nobody thought there were so many of them left; much less that they could be contacted so quickly."

"So your father...?"

"He overheard him talking about how Potter was likely to go to the Seventh Floor looking for something, and how nobody was to let him get there. But Greyback and the lot didn't know the castle that well, and they were too noticeable in the crowd. Father knew they would be surrounded almost immediately." He hadn't wanted to go to the castle. But Crabbe and Goyle were there and already had lost most of their respect towards him thanks to his family's disgrace... and he wasn't going to argue against his father when his desperation was so evident. "Father had an idea that me, Crabbe and Goyle could go in and out quickly without much trouble, and bring Potter to  _him_... thus regaining honor for our family. He was wrong, obviously."

He had described the skirmish to her, feeling almost nauseous at the memory. Astoria had been glad to hear that he had tried to stop Crabbe's killing curses; even more glad that he hadn't done any himself. "What an idiot," she had snorted when he mentioned the Fiendfyre.

"He was my friend," he had replied coldly.

Her amusement had disappeared instantly, as if she had suddenly realized what she had said, and some guilt had come over her features.

"But you're right," he had remarked with a scowl. "He was an idiot."

Crabbe really had always been an idiot, he thought as he avoided the suspicious gazes of the people that passed him on his way to the Atrium. And during those last months that he had known him, he had become a despicable and cruel one, too. Goyle was quieter, or stupider… he always had been almost blindly obedient before the nearest point of authority. But Crabbe had seemed to have undergone some horrible, silent transformation, and as the War had neared to an end Draco had been consistently more concerned that his own so-called 'friend' would become a danger.

It still wasn't enough to stop him from feeling a sharp stab of pain and guilt every time he thought of Crabbe screaming as he burned to death in the Fiendfyre.

The thought only made his head hurt more. Thinking about these things always made him sick.

Sometimes he wondered if things would have been easier if he'd only invested in some friends with brains that had actually developed properly.

The corridor opened up into the Atrium, and he suddenly felt the full brunt of what felt like hundreds of stares on him.

"Are you sure you don't want an Auror to escort you?" Astoria had called after him as he left the room. He had said nothing. He didn't need more close spectators adding to what seemed to be swiftly becoming some sort of satirical tragedy about his life.

But as he turned around the fountain in the center of the Atrium, dodging a small fleet of memos that soared past him, he suddenly regretted his decision. There were more people in that part of the Ministry than usual: there was probably something important happening that day. There was a banner ahead, just above the faces of what seemed to be thousands. There couldn't possibly be that many people in the Ministry, but his mind and the pressure of so much hatred directed towards him made them multiply into millions.

He forced himself to look up at the banners.  _A Malfoy does not bow his head_. Yes, father.

A FERAL ANIMAL BELONGS IN A CAGE

THE DOG MUST BE PUT DOWN

Ah, so it was Greyback.

Greyback had nearly been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, escaping with one arm less and even more scars than he had originally had, turning his already mangled look into blatant deformity. Two years ago, he had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, but whoever was defending him before the Wizengamot had found a loophole: with new emphasis to Werewolf Rights being given by the Ministry, Greyback's case could be appealed. He was now trying to get out of his life sentence, asking to 'undergo treatment' instead.

Naturally, this infuriated… well, everyone. Though the alternatives proposed (send him back to Azkaban, lock him in the Feral Institute, sentence him to death) varied, but everyone agreed that he deserved a punishment befitting his crimes.

Draco had no doubt that this was the last Greyback would see of the open world.

But his opinions mattered nothing before the mass of people that had rallied together to protest the upcoming hearing. Draco averted his eyes from the faces that stared at him, but he couldn't stop his ears from hearing the murmurs that rose in the multitude as he walked past. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks, but he felt like he could hear the entirety of Hogwarts' Great Hall in the Atrium with him, turned against him, murmuring his guilt, spitting at him in disgust. And then the mutterings rose, like a hateful orchestra, and the people were yelling at him, shouting at him.

"Go to hell, Malfoy!"

"Murderer!"

"Lock 'im up with Greyback, see who's laughing then!"

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_.  _Don't pick sides._   _A Malfoy does not bow his head._

Yes, father.

And then came Dennis Creevey crashing into him, an army of groping arms behind him, reaching to seize him in their claws. He was slammed into a pillar, and Creevey's nails were buried into his neck, pressing harshly on the bruises Nott had already left there…  _It isn't hard to pay people off if it means hurting a Malfoy_. But this wasn't paid; the rage in the fist that swiftly hurled itself towards his nose was born from the heart, and no amount of gold could make it hurt any more.

_It's going to be a pleasure to watch_. He could hear Astoria's voice in his ear, twisted into Aunt Bellatrix's sing-song voice  _Are you sure you don't want an Auror? Are you sure?_

And the orchestra rose in a crescendo.

Presently he realized he stood limply against the pillar, his gaze unfocused. Was the warm wetness on his face blood? He couldn't feel his nose. Beyond the walls of the bubble of silence he was encased in, he heard the distant roar of many voices. There was a clear scent of burnt stone. Had there been curses?

He looked down at himself, and except for the droplets of blood that stained the front of his robes, he seemed to be intact. Something moved in his field of vision, and an arm reached towards him, moving him brusquely away from the crowd. He resisted for a split second; was it Creevey, back for another punch? But no, it was someone else, an older man. Red hair. It couldn't be… no...

It wasn't. It was Bill Weasley.

The older wizard's scarred face came into focus as Draco stumbled forwards. He was finally in an area he could disapparate from.

"All right, Malfoy?" Behind him, Draco could see a multitude being pushed back by two Aurors, presumably Weasley's entourage. He was, after all, a Ministry Official. Draco reached up to wipe the blood from his nose. He nodded.

Weasley gave a nod of affirmation and turned away, going towards the crowd. Draco turned heel and disapparated.

...

The warm scent of cooking food welcomed Astoria into  _The Three Broomsticks_  and almost managed to shake away part of the irritation she was feeling. She was late; most of the pub's clients had already come and gone, leaving behind only a small group of people and the blond-haired landlady, who was occupied clearing dishes from some of the tables.

Astoria set down her purse on a stool at the bar and sat down beside it. Ernie Macmillan had given her a friendly nod as she had passed him earlier while she was leaving the Ministry, and in the brief glance he had directed at her over the head of the Auror he had been speaking to, she had clearly seen pity.

The memory filled her with disgust.

Not at Macmillan; she knew he couldn't help it. He was just so  _noble_ : he couldn't bring himself to feel any resentment to his opposition behind the scenes, however much ferocity he displayed during the actual trials. She knew he thought that she had been dealt the wrong cards, and she guessed that he had also picked up on the real reason for why she had been handed the Malfoy case instead of an easier, more popular trial. The truth was, nobody wanted a member of one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' families in positions of power after the War, even if it was as a sideline barrister. Macmillan probably knew he was one of the few exceptions to the unspoken popular rule, having participated actively in the War on the right side. For the rest of them, including Astoria, the prospects remained quite dark.

No, she felt disgust at herself for letting things go this way. "Looking through libraries all day, trying to find solutions to real problems much too complicated to solve with history books,"her father had growled only yesterday. "Stop trying to save Lucius' lot; they all dug their own graves years ago."

Digging graves. It had been more of a collective effort; one that was going to result in a colossal mass grave of the children of the Dark Side, as some people were referring to them as. Draco Malfoy, Tracey Davis, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Flora and Hestia Carrow, Gemma Farley, Millicent Bulstrode... the list went on and on. Draco's case was only one of the first, and the outcome of the future trials would certainly define what became of the Pureblood families that had once been considered the shining jewels of the Wizarding World.

And as if that wasn't enough, Draco Malfoy himself wasn't helping with his bizarre resistance to receiving help, despite his seemingly unconscious efforts to help his own case, which  _still_  weren't quite enough to give him a chance at getting cleared of all charges, or even giving him a minimal sentence. He already had the Dark Mark on his forearm, and the Wizengamot didn't need much more than that to condemn someone to a lifetime in Azkaban.

Still, Draco was better than his mother.

Astoria couldn't stop the sigh of frustration from escaping her lips just as the landlady moved to the bar once more, running a rag over the surface before turning to her with expectant eyes. Astoria met her gaze and was startled to see recognition in it.

"I'm sorry," the young woman stammered. Underneath the slightly wild wisps of blond hair that were escaping from the bun behind her head, she had a pretty, if rather rosy-cheeked face. She was staring at her somewhat awkwardly. "I- you look familiar and I can't quite place you."

Astoria forced a polite smile. "It's probably my sister," she replied, crossing her fingers over the bar and reciting the explanation she had given for what felt like her entire life. "Daphne Greengrass. Her hair's different, but I've been told our faces can look similar to people sometimes."

Realization came over the woman's face. "Oh, of course," she said. "You must be Astoria. I must have gone to Hogwarts at the same time as you, but I'm afraid I don't remember you or your sister very well... I must have recognized you from the papers."

Forcing her smile to stay in place, Astoria tried to push away the distinct feeling of annoyance that rose within her. Of course she had been recognized. The  _Prophet_  had made an effort to keep her face plastered in large photographs almost daily, along with all sorts of theories of how the Malfoys were going to pay their way out of Azkaban. As if there was anything left of their fortune in that large, empty Manor of theirs.

"Ah yes," she said. "The  _Prophet_."

She must have not managed to keep away the annoyance from her tone, because the woman in front of her grinned with amusement. "Hannah Abbot," she said, extending her hand. As Astoria shook it, she saw a friendly gleam in the landlady's eyes and her smile suddenly felt more genuine. "I'm sorry I reminded you of the papers... I know the press can be unbearable sometimes. You should have seen the mess they made when I got engaged. Well, I'm sure you did," she added with some distaste. "Can I get you anything?"

Suddenly reminded of where she was, it took Astoria a second to gather her thoughts. "Er- yes. Some lunch, actually."

As if picking up on her confusion, Hannah helpfully suggested, "We have some good lasagne."

"That would be nice," Astoria answered quickly. "And some butterbeer, please."

With a nod, Hannah left her for a moment and she was left to herself for a moment. When the landlady returned, she had a bottle in her hands and set it down in front of her.

"I would think you would want something a bit stronger when dealing with the Malfoy family," she remarked with a wry grin.

Astoria couldn't help the smirk that appeared on her lips as she took the bottle in her hand. "At times it's almost a necessity," she replied before drinking.

Hannah laughed. "What brings you to Hogsmeade?" she asked presently. "It's not common to see recently graduated students return for a visit, much less at this time of year. The nostalgia tends to take a bit longer."

"Business," Astoria replied simply.

"Oh... speaking to McGonnagal?"

"I don't think I should say," she answered slowly. "No offence."

"None taken," said Hannah brightly. "I should have guessed. Sadly, I've way too much experience when it comes to trials... I must have testified in about a dozen." As she leaned forwards to take something that was handed to her by a passing client, Astoria caught sight of a white line on the woman's jaw, almost imperceptible from any other angle. It wasn't an ordinary scar; it was obvious it came from a curse. The War had left marks on everyone.

As some of the clients left, leaving only a group of three at the back of the pub, Hannah leaned closer to her and spoke in a low voice, her voice taking on a more serious note. "I would offer my help, actually, if I had anything to say... but the truth is I never saw Malfoy do anything that inspired any trust." She bit her lip. "I would testify, too, you know... he was a prick, but I don't think he or his mother deserve the same as his father." Her expression grew dark. "As for that man, I hope he rots in prison."

Was there anything she could say to that?  _So do I_  wasn't quite the answer Draco Malfoy's defense should have... or was it? Maybe Hannah could see the dilemma in Astoria's eyes, because she drew away quickly with a grin.

"Sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable, I know these times are... complicated," she suddenly looked flustered. "And I'm sorry for pouncing on you like this; I didn't even ask you if you felt like talking and so far I've just been throwing conversation at you!"

Her annoyance disappearing completely at the sight of Hannah's discomfort, Astoria smiled. "It's really okay," she said, running a hand through her hair, trying to switch into a more friendly demeanor instead of the professional one she seemed to have been wearing perpetually for the last few weeks. "I've had the most stressful week so far... it kind of helps to talk to someone whose fate isn't directly dependent on the outcome of my job."

"I'm glad," Hannah answered with a grimace. "I don't envy you. I was lucky to get a job as calm as this one... I'm not  _really_  the landlady of  _The_   _Three Broomsticks_." Her tone was almost conspiratorial.

"I was wondering where Madame Rosmerta was."

"She went off to Egypt with her sister for the holidays," Hannah explained with a laugh. "I never thought she would do such a thing, but here I am. And she pays well, though I can't tell you how many times she's sent me threatening letters warning me not to break anything." She grinned. "It's been rather hard, with my fiancee having a tendency to smash almost every single thing he touches."

She walked away towards the kitchens, returning a minute later with Astoria's meal. "By the way," she said in a low voice as she brought her a napkin. "You might want to have a talk with him. Neville Longbottom; he teaches Herbology at Hogwarts... and he was in Draco Malfoy's year. He might have some stories to tell."


	5. Chapter 5

"I don't understand."

The words floated up above his head and were lost in the vast expanse of the ceiling. He was lying on the floor of the ballroom, not quite sure of how he had gotten there. His throat burned with the taste of alcohol and if he moved he was quite sure that the noise of cracking glass wouldn't only be in his head; he was somewhere near the pile of empty bottles he had only just smashed to pieces.

As he floated in the heavy, murky waters of his thoughts, Draco felt pleasantly disconnected from it all. The sunlight pushing through the windows was almost ethereal and beautiful, the thick columns of the large room almost majestic.

"I don't understand, sir."

Somehow, his lips formed the words even though he had never said them. Somehow, his parents waltzed past him regally, their feet hovering just above the broken glass. Somehow, Travis Mulpepper choked on his own cigar nearby and fell away into piles of Fluxweed, while Theodore Nott ran off into the shadows of the ballroom, tripping over his own robes... Somehow, Astoria Greengrass laughed a melodious laugh just overhead, her hair tousled as she smiled at him in a way she never had...

Somehow, his memory tugged at him so violently that he closed his eyes...

...And stood up straight again in his father's study, young and only starting the growth spurt that would leave him tall and lanky. His father stood on the dais, his eyes fixed on the family crest emblazoned on the tapestry behind him.

"I don't understand, sir," Draco repeated, reluctantly. On the floor, in the ballroom, Draco mixed the memory of the words with the alcohol in his mouth.

"What is there to not understand?" His father fixed him with the same cold stare he had always used when addressing him. The green jewel of the brooch on his chest almost glowed in the bright white lights of the lanterns overhead, matching the shining emeralds that gleamed in the eyes of the serpents on the tapestry behind him.

"Why you would do something like that," Draco drawled, leaning against a shelf, his confusion masked behind a sneer. Father always makes things sound so important and regal, as if everything he does is because he's so wise. "It sounds like a stupid thing to do."

His father's eyes momentarily glowed with fury. Draco couldn't quite help the satisfaction that showed in his expression.

"Do not address me with such words," Lucius spat, eyes flashing. "You know nothing of how the world was in those years. What I did for us, saved us! You are alive because of it."

"You have to pay the Ministry millions in gold so that they respect us, and you still can't make business deals with-"

"Anybody who rejects us on those grounds is not worth making business with," Lucius said stiffly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Father, you've always said that a Malfoy bows to no one. If that's so true, then isn't it a bit disgraceful to have been a servant to Voldem-"

The gasp of horror and the roar his father proffered was enough to make him jump, and in the ballroom Draco started involuntarily, as if awakening, the glass underneath his body screeching unpleasantly against tee floor, digging into his back. He blinked slowly, but in his mind's eye he could still see his father rush towards him, face livid, so angry that for a second Draco thought he might strike him.

"You DO NOT speak the Dark Lord's name!" he roared. "You disrespectful-"

"Lucius!"

His mother rushed forward from where she had been sitting near the window to his back. And the Draco who lay on the floor momentarily hated the Draco in the study, who could feel her arms encircle him and see the concern in her wide eyes. Within the memory, he watched himself shy away from his mother, embarrassed by her affection, eager to stand tall and alone before his father. But Narcissa held her husband's gaze for a long, tremulous moment, until Lucius turned and walked away from them, fuming, his eyes fixed on the tapestry behind the desk once more.

His mother turned to him, but Draco kept his eyes on his father, whose tall figure stood still as stone across the room, and felt the resentment brimming in them. "Draco," his mother's gentle voice said in his ear, shaking only slightly. "You mustn't upset your father. You are yet too young to understand the reasons for why he followed the Dark Lord; but you must trust that they were for our well-being." She reached for his chin and he begrudgingly turned his face to look at her. "You know everything we have ever done has been for you."

Draco looked up at the roof of the ballroom and smiled, feeling his vision blur. The amusement he felt must be brought on by hysterics. He didn't care. His mouth moved and he felt himself speak in unison with his younger self, different tones, different times, different situations... "But I wasn't even born yet, Mother."

Yes, he had called her out on her lies then, and she had called herself out on them now. Liar. She couldn't even deal with what his father had left behind: not the business, not the Manor, not the trials, not even her own son.

Liar.

His voice was slurred as he said the word, and even more so as he cursed her in front of the empty hall and the sunlit windows. And his laugh was slurred, too, as he laughed out his grief as loudly as he could, hearing the echoes dance around the far-off corners of the ceiling, mixing with the sounds of his memories.

Again, Astoria and her impossible laugh seemed to dart among the pillars.

His trial was tomorrow.

"Go to hell," he sneered at nothing in particular. It could all go to hell.

All of it. All of them.

He reached up to rub his eyes with a surprisingly steady hand and felt the amusement leave him in a rush, as if it were escaping him on purpose, and he couldn't stop the gaping darkness that followed.

...

"Well, Miss Greengrass, I won't pretend I don't know what you're here about," said Minerva McGonagall as she moved to sit behind her desk, her posture almost regal as her midnight blue robes fell around the high-backed seat of the Headmistress.

She had aged swiftly in the past year, Astoria had noticed the moment the Headmistress had met her at the Entrance Hall. The lines on her face were more pronounced, and her once black hair was now considerably lined with silver. But her eyes were as piercing as ever and Astoria fought the urge to look away as the older witch surveyed her sternly from the other side of the desk.

Albus Dumbledore's old study had changed significantly over the last three years; not only during Severus Snape's reign over the school but also notably during McGonagall's years as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Once filled with gleaming oddities and unusual objects Dumbledore and his predecessors had collected, it was now a plainer yet equally stately place. Many of the small spindle-legged tables had given way to new shelves set in an orderly fashion that contained the prized possessions of past generations, and the neatly ordered quills and rolls of parchment on McGonagall's desk gave way to a slightly more austere look than it had had when Dumbledore had inhabited it.

Astoria had only been to that room once, in her second year, but the memory was was still clear in her mind. Her eyes were drawn to the Sorting Hat, where it sat at the top of its habitual shelf, and then to the large portrait of a sleeping Albus Dumbledore, who she somehow felt was watching her from over Professor McGonagall's shoulder despite his apparent slumber. The rest of the witches and wizards in the portraits also remained fast asleep… though Astoria had her doubts about Severus Snape, whose back was turned towards the room.

"Again, thank you for sparing the time to meet with me," Astoria said politely, forcing herself to hold McGonagall's stern gaze. It was hard to shake the feeling that she was some unruly student, brought to the Headmistress' office for a scolding.

"You're quite welcome," said McGonagall, giving her a thin-lipped smile as she watched her from over the rim of her spectacles. "I must admit I'm rather curious about how you plan to go about this case."

"Cases, actually. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about Narcissa Malfoy, as well."

The Professor merely raised an eyebrow as she waved her wand towards the tea set that hovered beside her desk. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," Astoria replied. She was much too nervous for tea. She hesitated briefly. "I was hoping you might share any impressions you might have had of Draco Malfoy during his school years."

McGonagall sipped her tea and then fixed her once more with her piercing gaze. "I'm afraid that if you're looking for information helpful to your side of the case, Miss Greengrass, I doubt any of my ideas will be of use."

She had expected such an answer, but felt her heart sink all the same. "Anything will do."

"Well, I suppose you remember him a bit yourself… you were in his House, after all."

"Yes, I was, but I was two years beneath him. I recognized him but paid him little attention."

Mc Gonagall nodded. "Well, I'm afraid that was the attitude most Slytherins had towards him. I have always suspected that Draco lost rather than gained from his family's reputation, and even more so from the education he received at home. When he reached Hogwarts, most of the school wouldn't talk to him because he was a Malfoy, and the rest would distance themselves as soon as they noticed what a… well, what a self-centered little brat he was." McGonagall's lips twitched, and she said the last part in a tone that made Astoria think that she may have wanted to say those words for years.

"He was respected, of course," the Professor continued after sipping her tea once more, the teacup held steadily in her firm grip. "I suspect the other students' parents instructed them to show some level of deference… even some of the teachers showed him more respect than he probably deserved," she pursed her lips chidingly. "But besides the two fools that followed him around like lost puppies, Draco hardly ever interacted with other Slytherins. I remember the staff was rather surprised at this; Lucius was always so popular in his years at Hogwarts."

"Did he ever show much interest in the Dark Arts?"

McGonagall looked pensive. "I wouldn't know such a thing," she said finally, "I would suggest that you speak to one of his Defense against the Dark Arts professors… but I'm afraid that, given the circumstances, such a thing is impossible." Her eyes seemed to linger a bit longer on the teacup in her hand, and she sniffed once before continuing. "What I can say, however, is this… if he ever did, then I don't believe it was out of malicious intent. If Draco Malfoy sought after the Dark Arts, then he did so merely for the attention."

"The attention?"

"He always struck me as a child desperate for his peers' approval, and even more so, his father's. In his second year, he all but bought himself a place in the Slytherin Quidditch team; the sheer persistence he had when bullying other students made it clear that he longed for the attention. Malice, I believe, calls for more subtle methods. Draco had a tendency to make a scene for the sole benefit of riling up his adversaries."

"Do you think it may have reached a point where that made him want to become a Death Eater?"

There was silence in the room. McGonagall set down her teacup and gave her a long stare.

"That is a very serious question, Miss Greengrass."

"This is a very serious case."

Her own words surprised her, and she almost regretted them as soon as she heard them. But McGonagall actually smiled for a second before leaning back in her seat, her eyes turned elsewhere. It struck Astoria that the Headmistress had lived through both Wars and seen the effects of both. How many once promising children had she watched turn to the Dark Side?

"I believe Draco desired his father's approval. His mother was a constant source of affection: she pampered him to no end, and sent him entire boxes of sweets during his first years here. It was ridiculous. But what little I did see of Lucius Malfoy in this school didn't strike me as particularly affectionate. And given Draco's immaturity and the closed, prejudicial bubble he seemed to live in, I would not be surprised to learn that he did it on his father's orders, or at any rate, in an attempt to please him."

Astoria nodded, her quill flying over the parchment before her as she jotted down notes of what the Headmistress said. But her mind was quick to remind her that McGonagall, unfortunately, was merely speaking her personal opinion, and in a courtroom her opinion would be easily dissected… it could even work against them. While studying accounts of previous war trials, Astoria had been stricken by the similarities Barty Crouch Jr.'s childhood had had with Draco's. The only difference between them was, perhaps, the level of rank the Malfoy family had had, a characteristic it did not share with the Crouch family.

If the Wizengamot came to compare the two, they would most certainly lose the case, notwithstanding the differences in the men's personalities. Their childhoods were all too similar.

"Did you ever see him do something that could prove that he had good intentions, or at the very least, not bad intentions? Perhaps during the Battle…"

"He let Death Eaters into the castle in his sixth year," McGonagall said, her tone grave. "I hardly saw him after that."

Astoria could only nod at that, and she sighed as she looked over the parchment in her hands. "What about Narcissa?" she asked a moment later. "I believe you already taught here when she was a student."

"Yes. What do you want to know?"

The question didn't really have a clear answer. What questions could she possibly ask? There were so many. At least with Draco she had had conversation… with Narcissa she had nothing. She knew nothing about the woman.

"Can you think of any reason for her refusing to speak?"

McGonagall looked rather taken aback. "To whom?"

"To anyone."

The Professor eyed her oddly for a moment and then began to speak, slowly. "I have not seen her since she graduated. I was told she was at the Battle two years ago, but I have no memory of seeing her… which is understandable, really. So much was happening at once." Again, there was that grave look in her eyes that Astoria had learned to recognize in veterans of the Wars. "But in her years here, I was given the impression that out of the three Black sisters, she was the one who got the easiest youth."

She paused for a moment, frowning slightly. "Bellatrix was the eldest and therefore bore the greatest pressure from her parents. Everything was expected of her. Perhaps this added to her already disturbed mind. She was engaged to a boy she had no interest in liking, and was constantly pushed by her parents, who boosted her own ambition to ridiculous heights. Andromeda had it just as hard; her physical similarity to her sister and the small age difference was enough to make them expect her to excel just as much as Bellatrix did, and she responded to this with rebelliousness, even going as far as marrying a Muggle-born." She sighed sadly, but a smile was on her lips. "Andromeda is a wonderful woman, and her daughter inherited her good heart… but the fire she carries within her is very obviously Black.

"Narcissa, on the other hand, always struck me as a more passive child; she was already more of a Malfoy than a Black long before she married. Being the youngest, she carried less of the responsibility, and was instead highly valued by all that surrounded her for her fair looks. Here at Hogwarts she caused a flurry: the girl was such a pretty creature. Her nature was just as pampered as her looks deserved, however, and though she was intelligent, the intelligence was weighed down by a great amount of arrogance. Still, there was no malice in her, as one found in her eldest sister. She was merely a result of her environment… very much as Draco is, I believe." McGonagall shook her head. "It's a sad thing that happens all too often in these circles."

"You mentioned that she sent her son sweets. Was she a very caring person?" Astoria couldn't help but be rather skeptical of this. Narcissa's stony silence gave every impression but that of a sweet, loving mother.

"I believe she is; or at any rate, she was in the years that I knew her, " the Headmistress scowled slightly. "It was nearly impossible to separate her from Lucius the year they became a couple. The two of them were reprimanded quite a few times… but I do believe she sincerely felt affection towards him. How much of that was as a result of the Black family's arrangements, I don't know, but Malfoy in that time was a more than suitable match for Narcissa. Her parents were proud, and she made sure everyone knew it. From the attitudes I saw in Draco, I believe she may have been rather too caring when it came to her son… he was a bit more spoiled than usual. But, in the end… I suppose excessive spoiling is a more redeeming trait for a mother than neglect."

"How do you think she reacted to Lucius becoming a Death Eater?"

"I cannot say. But in those days Voldemort was very much a new fad, so to speak. None of us knew how serious the threat would become. Among many of the pureblood families, and even more so among most of the pureblood children… the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight… to be a Death Eater was considered a great honor and a sign of power. I am sure Narcissa, along with nearly everyone around Lucius, thought it was a wonderful idea. But I know no real facts in that regard. As you know, I was the Gryffindor Head of House… hardly the person to have much insight into Slytherin gossip."

Still, there had been much insight, Astoria noted, and felt deep frustration at the fact that she couldn't interview the Head of House from those days. But the information may not really be relevant… the truth was that the only person living who could truly share a valid, credible testimony about Narcissa was Narcissa herself.

She sighed, and set her quill down, lifting her purse from the ground beside her. "Perhaps you have some suggestions of people I could speak to about these things? I'm very thankful for your help, Professor, but I'm in desperate need of an actual account of a situation of some sort that can support my position… especially about Draco Malfoy. I'm aware that Narcissa is a harder task."

"I understand," said McGonagall calmly. "But I'm afraid there aren't very many people in this school that could tell you stories of Draco Malfoy's kindness. He didn't make much of an effort to impress upon people how good-natured he was during his years here." She sighed. "I can only suggest that you speak to his classmates… they might have better insights into his person than I did."

"An acquaintance suggested I speak to Neville Longbottom… I hear he teaches here."

Professor McGonagall suddenly looked rather amused. "I'm afraid Neville Longbottom is hardly the person to speak to when searching for pleasant tales about Draco Malfoy, Miss Greengrass. If anyone bore the brunt of his bullying harder than Potter, it was Neville. Still, if you really wish to speak to him, his office is located beside the greenhouses." She glanced at a large clock that hung just above the door behind Astoria. "In fact, I believe he is just finishing his class as we speak."

Astoria rose from her seat, and Professor McGonagall followed. They shook hands.

"Thank you for your collaboration," Astoria said. "The information you gave me will prove very helpful, I'm sure." She hesitated. "I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the importance of discretion…"

"I am aware of it. You have nothing to worry about," said McGonagall gravely, and she gazed at her kindly from behind her spectacles. "You always were a bright student, Miss Greengrass. I'm very pleased to see that you found a job that you enjoy. I trust that your next cases will be easier than this one, but you are more than skilled enough to tackle the Malfoy case; don't let anyone tell you you can't do it."

As she left the Headmistress' office, Astoria had to stop and lean against the wall just before the large Gargoyle that guarded the entrance. She had always admired McGonagall's fierce tenacity, and the effect the Professor's words of encouragement had had on her was positively refreshing. For the first time in weeks, Astoria almost felt all the confidence she had done her best to wear in front of others.

Taking a deep breath and scolding herself silently for her weakness, she brushed the treacherous tears from her eyes and made her way towards the Herbrology greenhouses.

She got there nearly fifteen minutes later; the heat of the bright sun reflected off of the windows of the castle as she made her way outside forced her to take off her cloak. She felt some pity for the students cooped up inside the stuffy greenhouses, wearing dragon hide gloves and thick protective robes. After all, she had always hated Herbology.

As she approached the doors she heard the voices of many people inside, and a few seconds later the doors opened and a stream of fourth years came out, some of them dusting their robes as they left. A few glanced at Astoria curiously, but she said nothing and instead waited for the path to clear before stepping into the greenhouse tentatively.

The familiar stuffy scent of dirt and plantlife hit her immediately and she had to walk past many rows of strange plants whose names she had never quite mastered before she could make out the figure of a tall, young wizard who was digging about one of the larger pots, where a plant with long leaves was poking about in his dark hair. He brushed it away a couple of times as he dug, and accidentally got hit in the eye with a particle of dirt. He cursed in a low voice.

Astoria cleared her throat.

Professor Longbottom turned swiftly, narrowly avoiding smashing his face against one of the overly affectionate plant's extended branches. He squinted at Astoria with one eye. "Oh, sorry," he said quickly, giving her an apologetic smile. "I didn't realize someone was here… how can I help you?"

As he fully regained his vision, she saw that he had brown eyes that were looking at her in such a friendly manner that she immediately felt comfortable speaking to him. She vaguely remembered him from school; the scar that stood out clearly on his cheek, bearing some resemblance to the one Astoria had seen on Hannah's jaw, was enough to make her recognize the student who had kept the Carrows chasing after the D.A. during what little of that hellish year at Hogwarts she had experienced. Even in the deep dungeons of the Slytherin common room in those days, word had spread.

She offered him a polite smile, which bore a bit more respect than it usually would have. "Professor Longbottom," she said, stepping forwards. "My name is Astoria Greengrass. The Headmistress was kind enough to tell me where to find you… I spoke to your fiancee earlier at the Three Broomsticks and she suggested I meet with you."

Longbottom looked at her with some surprise, but pulled his gloves off to shake her hand, his smile still sincere if slightly perplexed.

"Well, if Hannah pointed you my way then it must be for a good reason," he said blithely. "If you'll join me in my office..?"

Astoria nodded and followed him as he moved away from the large plant, patting one of its branches gently before making his way towards the back door of the greenhouse. She glanced at the plant with some distaste and it seemed to sense it, because it shied away from her immediately. Somewhat relieved, she reached the door and found herself in a small adjacent building that housed the office of the Herbology Professor. She hadn't even known it was there; after all, she had never truly spoken to her own Herbology Professor outside of class.

The room was almost as full of plants and tools as the greenhouse was, though stacked among the pots were piles of books, and in the center of the room was a desk covered in papers.

Longbottom chuckled at her expression. "My personal collection," he said, nodding towards the strange assortment of plants and cacti. "Ever since I left the house, my gran has made a habit of sending me curious specimens as gifts… and lately, so do other people who don't know what to get me. Thankfully, I actually enjoy it," he grinned. "Some of them can be pretty mischievous though, so you might want to stay away from them. Especially those two in the corner."

Astoria tried to mask the fact that she stepped away from the corner as swiftly as she could. If Longbottom noticed, he pretended not to.

"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to a chair as he sat across from her behind the desk.

She sat, trying to shake the feeling that she was out of her depth among all the plant life. He looked at her expectantly.

"I'm a barrister," Astoria explained, moving to the point quickly. "I'm representing Narcissa Malfoy in her trials, and will be representing Draco Malfoy tomorrow in his."

Understanding spread across the Professor's face. "And you're looking for witnesses."

Astoria nodded.

Longbottom gave a low snort of amusement, though it sounded rather bitter. "And Hannah suggested you speak to me for a testimony that could save Malfoy from Azkaban?"

"I understood that it's a bit strange, given the Headmistress' reaction to the idea."

He laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, it's a bit strange…" Leaning back in his seat, he exhaled softly and his expression grew more serious. "I don't know what to say to you, really. I would have thought you would speak to his Slytherin friends instead of me."

"He didn't have very many friends," Astoria said.

Longbottom frowned slightly. "Goyle, Nott, Zabini, Parkinson?"

"Goyle's already under house arrest for attacking Aurors, and his trial takes place in three weeks. Nott refused to testify on Draco's behalf. Zabini only just got clear and he's in Germany for the next two weeks. As for Parkinson… I'm planning on meeting her tonight but I don't expect to get very much."

"I see," he sighed. "Well… if you're expecting accounts that prove him a wonderful bloke then you'll be disappointed."

"I'm aware of that," Astoria replied. "I'm just looking for something he may have done, or not done, that proves that he didn't truly want to be a Death Eater."

"Well, the sad thing is that he always acted like one," Longbottom said with a grimace. "He made quite a bit of effort, too. He had everyone convinced that he was evil to the bone. Which doesn't help, now… but I suppose it made him feel powerful. When I was a kid, though, it didn't really feel that way. I thought he was the worst thing that had ever happened to me," he grinned. "Well, him and Snape… but I suppose in a way I was wrong about that, too."

"But there's a difference between being a bully and being a Death Eater," she said.

He nodded. "Yeah, there is…" he sighed. "I can't think of anything in particular… but I do recall feeling that Malfoy was acting different, in our sixth year. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I guess it must have been because he was a Death Eater by then. The way he treated people was different; not better, but different… it was like he always had his mind on something. He looked like he was always going to be sick," Longbottom smiled ruefully. "I remember because I hoped he would end up in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the year and wouldn't be around to bother me. But I guess that shows that he wasn't enjoying it. He didn't really look like he was enjoying anything."

Astoria nodded, and wrote down the information quickly. "Do you know anything else about the way he might have felt about being a Death Eater?"

"No," he replied. "At school I made an effort to avoid him."

"What about during the Battle of Hogwarts?" she glanced at his scar for the briefest of seconds. She had heard the stories. It was hard to believe that the tall wizard whose robes were covered with dirt and whose main occupation was caring after plants was the same wizard that had pulled the Sword of Godric Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat and killed the Dark Lord's gigantic snake.

"I didn't see much of him," said Longbottom almost apologetically. "I was in another part of the castle than he was, and later there were just so many things happening at once… I do remember seeing him with his parents once the battle ended. They were just sitting there, in a corner, for hours… the Order nearly missed them when they began rounding up Death Eaters." He shrugged. "You can ask anyone. It was strange. I guess they were kind of in shock."

She sighed, and was placing her quill back in the purse when he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! I know… maybe you should speak to Nick. I mean, Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost?"

Astoria looked at him with some confusion. "A ghost?"

"Yes," he answered. "I remember him saying something about Malfoy earlier this year. You should talk to him. He might be able to help you."

"I suppose I will then." She had never thought to speak to the ghosts. The Bloody Baron had never been much of a talker, anyway.

"I'm really sorry I couldn't be of much help," he said earnestly, his gaze sympathetic. "Malfoy may have treated me like dung during my time at Hogwarts, but I don't think he deserves a life sentence in Azkaban. I think he got in over his head. If I could help you more, I would."

"I understand," Astoria said, and smiled at him. As she averted her eyes, preparing to rise from her seat, her gaze was drawn to a newspaper that sat folded on top of a pile of parchment. It looked oddly neat in comparison to the mess that was his desk. Was her name in the headline again?

INVESTIGATION UNCOVERS UNKNOWN SUSPECT IN SCRIMGEOUR'S MURDER

It wasn't, but the title was interesting nonetheless. Longbottom saw where she was looking and shrugged rather awkwardly. "I haven't touched it. I'm rather sick of the Prophet, really, haven't read it for weeks… I get it mailed to me, but I usually just read the Quibbler. You can keep it if you want."

He took it and offered it to her, and his gaze was so earnest that she accepted it, folding it and placing it in her purse along with the parchment in her hand. "Thank you."

"No problem," Longbottom replied, and rose at the same time as she did, moving to escort her to the door. "I just hope I was of some help. I'll be keeping an eye on the case from now on… I hope everything goes well."

"So do I," she said, and shook his hand.

As she was leaving, the door of his office almost disappearing in the heavy foliage of the greenhouse, she heard his voice and she turned. Longbottom was still standing in the doorway, his expression sober.

"What's he like now?"

Astoria paused for a moment.

"Different," she said, and disappeared into the rows of plants.


	6. Chapter 6

Astoria was astonished at the luck she had in finding the Gryffindor ghost.

She had made her way towards the Great Hall after leaving the greenhouses, her mind fresh with memories of walking through the same corridors as a student, with Cecilia Fletcher at her side. It was a pity Cecilia had begun training as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries only a month ago, just before Astoria had found her chance to begin her career as a barrister; the Department of Mysteries demanded that its trainees have no contact with the outside world for the first three months of their training.

She tried to brush away the nostalgia that settled around her as she passed small crowds of students moving towards the Great Hall. It wasn't dinnertime yet, but she remembered using the valuable time after classes to do homework in the library or on the long House tables in the hours before the meals magically appeared. Perhaps the ghosts would be circling the area, eager for some interaction.

The first ghost she saw was hovering near a group of second year Hufflepuffs near one of the staircases, but she quickly recognized it as the Fat Friar. Making her way briskly through the corridor, she tried to ignore the curious looks the students shot her. Many of the older ones probably recognized her from last year, but she wasn't likely to know any of them very closely, and she was in a hurry. She couldn't afford to waste any time.

As she neared the Great Hall, she began to reconsider her strategy.

But she suddenly saw Nearly-Headless Nick just ahead, floating somewhat morosely over the heads of two students who didn't even seem to notice his presence.

Astoria had had encounters with ghosts in her early childhood, mostly because her great-great-great-great grandfather Silenus Greengrass was a ghost himself and often roamed about his old bedroom in an abandoned corner of the last floor of her house. Though rather full of himself and at times a bit tactless, he had been a good friend to her in the early years of her childhood, around the same time she had learned how to read.

As the years had passed, she had stopped visiting him so often, though she always greeted him when she could. Perhaps it had happened as a result of her disenchantment when she began to realize that some of his opinions were less based on facts and more born out of stubborn opinions of his own that he enjoyed imposing on people. But he still made a point of suggesting ancient books for her to read.

"It's the old ones that are the best, my dear," he used to say. "In my day, warlocks who wrote had less things to do with their time; therefore they put more thought into the words they wrote."

Nearing the area where the Gryffindor ghost floated, she raised a hand in an attempt to attract his attention, not too keen on the idea of calling out his name in the middle of an echoing corridor. Luckily, the ghost noticed her almost immediately, turning eagerly and floating down towards where she stood, his ruff shaking slightly as he offered her a bright smile.

"Good afternoon!" he exclaimed as he reached her. "How may I be of service?"

She had never seen him up close. He wore a ruff and tights, and his head wobbled slightly as he spoke, betraying his… well… Nearly-Headless-ness. The smile on his silvery lips was very different from the stern look old Silenus usually wore.

"Good afternoon," she answered politely. "You're the Gryffindor ghost, right?"

"Yes," he answered. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service." And he offered her a slight bow.

She gave a greeting nod. "I'm Astoria Greengrass. Professor Longbottom recommended I speak to you about an important matter I hope you could help me with."

"Oh, Neville pointed you my way?" Sir Nicholas seemed pleased, and he rose slightly in the air with pride. "I am honored. Of course, I will help in what I can."

"Thank you. Could we speak somewhere more private?"

The ghost nodded. "Certainly. There's an empty classroom nearby, if you follow me…"

She did, and she followed the gliding, silver figure of the ghost a short distance until they reached a door. He passed straight through it, and she pushed it open to find herself in one of the old Ancient Runes classrooms.

As she settled down on an empty chair, he floated lower until he almost looked like he was standing on the ground, though the tips of his shoes betrayed the truth as they disappeared into the stone.

Astoria quickly explained why she was there. "Professor Longbottom said that you might have something to say about Draco Malfoy that I might be able to use on his behalf during his trial tomorrow."

Sir Nicholas' eyes widened. "Trial? Oh dear… I suppose it's a difficult case to defend."

She nodded grimly. "It is."

The ghost sighed sadly. "Well, what I suppose Neville was referring to is a short anecdote I shared with him some months ago. It must have taken place during Malfoy's… second, perhaps third year." He suddenly started, as if he had had an idea. "But there is also another thing that comes to mind."

She held down her expectations, not wanting to get too excited. So far, she had had too many disappointments. But it  _was_  possible that a ghost, despite being a Gryffindor, would have more insight into Hogwarts life than the students themselves. After all, the only thing ghosts did most of the time was lurk in corridors. If his story proved useful, Sir Nicholas could prove to be the perfect witness.

A ghost  _could_  testify and be considered a reliable witness; at any rate, they were allowed to do so since 1811, when Grogan Stump classified ghosts as 'Spirits' and declared that they were able to  _bear part of the responsibility in shaping Magical Law._ It wasn't often ghosts were present in trials, but Astoria supposed a special summoning could be arranged in that particular case.

And as Nearly-Headless Nick neared the end of his testimony, Astoria had to make a conscious effort to control the delight she felt. He would do perfectly. It was not, perhaps, what she had originally envisioned as part of the defense, but even as he spoke to her the ideas she had already had took shape in her mind and formed a discourse that she knew she could use successfully.

Well, it would only be successful if Macmillan didn't guess her angle. The issue of Barty Crouch Jr. still troubled her.

…

As the sunset began to throw its first orange rays into the sky, she found herself standing in her flat, her hand resting on the mantelpiece, eyes fixed on the bag of Floo Powder before her. She had thought to get some tea before doing anything else, but she was beginning to realize how short on time she was.

If only she hadn't used up so much of her time trying to get Narcissa to speak and trying to find a more fail-proof angle to use…

Well, it was too late now. Using two ghost witnesses wasn't the best she could do, but it was certainly better than having nothing at all. If only portraits could be witnesses… the image of Severus Snape's turned back in McGonagall's office filled her with frustration. But Magical Law was final; portraits could not be witnesses to trials: they were easy to subject to spells and they were merely recordings of a person's feelings and character, not a genuine replica of the person they had been. Ghosts, at the very least, had once been human kept memories of their lives.

It might have helped if the ghosts had been  _alive_  during the time in which their stories had taken place, but it was the best she could do. And maybe she could have some more luck tonight.

But she doubted it.

Sighing and rubbing the tiredness from her eyes, she looked around her flat. The golden light made its way into the living room area through the thin windows that were enchanted to hide the inside from the sight of the people outside; she hadn't yet had the time to find suitable curtains for them. Her couch and armchair looked rather out of place in the still plain room, having come from an elegant house and now finding themselves covered in piles of papers and books that Astoria had collected only during the last few weeks. There was an alarming amount of teacups in the sink (more than plates, that was for sure), waiting to be washed, but she hadn't even had the time to use a cleaning spell on them. Well, she would find the time later. Today she had more important things to do.

She found herself wondering what Draco was doing at the moment. The image of him sitting half in the dark, his white-blonde hair the brightest thing in the shadowy ballroom, surrounded by dust and with a glass of scotch in hand had stuck with her. It was clear that he had more to worry about than only the case, and the thought filled her with frustration. What did he even do with all his time? He couldn't work, couldn't study, couldn't go out… and so he remained, locked in an empty Mansion with only a house-elf and a perpetually silent mother for company.

If only someone in the Malfoy family would make some effort to pull themselves out of the deplorable situation they were in.

The fire glowed stronger and she pocketed the wand she had been holding in her hand, ignoring a pressing collection of thoughts touching on the subject of Narcissa's steadily collapsing case. She had better things to do.

Pulling herself together, she threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and knelt, sticking her head into the flames as she called out the address.

She was momentarily choked by the smoke and soot, but eventually the green flames gave way to the sight of a large sitting room, elegantly decorated, the large chandelier throwing light onto the silver and gold cushions that covered nearly everything, including certain areas of the enormous carpets.

Daphne Greengrass looked up at the fireplace from where she sat on the loveseat, painting her nails idly, her golden curls falling about her shoulders.

"Astoria!" her voice was almost a whisper, her eyes wide, looking slightly scandalized. "What're you doing? Mother-"

"Oh, Merlin, is that Astoria?"

Astoria couldn't help an aggravated sigh from escaping her lips as a woman in rich emerald robes appeared, walking briskly towards where her head floated in the fireplace, her blue eyes just as wide as her eldest daughter's.

"Hello, Mother."

"I do hope your Flooing here is to let us know you're returning home at once," Mrs. Greengrass said, her expression chagrined.

"No, I'm afraid not," Astoria said calmly. "I was just-"

It was hopeless. Her mother let out a low shriek of despair. On the loveseat, Daphne smirked as she watched the scene.

"What did we do wrong, Astoria? You were such a promising young woman… and now your father is desperate because  _his own daughter_  has abandoned him…"

"I haven't  _abandoned_  him, Mother," Astoria said, though she knew nothing she said would change her mother's mind. "I just don't want to work with him. I like what I'm doing."

"Oh, and don't get me started on  _that_ ," Mrs. Greengrass threw her hands up. "A  _barrister_? A Greengrass, pure of blood, beautiful, clever…" behind her back, Daphne raised a cynical eyebrow. "…A  _barrister?_  Such a lowly job. At the very least, if you were with a firm of some sort, led by some powerful pureblood family. But no. You move out of our home, you shun us and you go work with some gaggle of fools caring for criminals… I worry about you every day, Astoria. What is to become of you?"

"I haven't  _shun_  you, Mother. Not wanting to live in the house, where it's practically impossible to work, especially with everyone already disagreeing with my career, is not  _shunning_. I still come over for dinner each week, don't I?" Astoria sighed. "But anyway, I'm not here to talk about this… I want to speak to Daphne."

Mrs. Greengrass looked like she had many more things she wanted to say but prudently held her tongue, eyeing her daughters disapprovingly.

Daphne fixed her mother with a languid but pointed stare. "Mother, that means she wants you to leave us alone."

Muttering under her breath, the elegant woman departed, retreating to a couch farther off where she sat primly, still glancing at them now and then. Astoria avoided looking at her and focused instead on her eldest sister, who now looked more interested than scandalized by her presence.

"So, what do you want? You could have just written, you know… that way we could have avoided another one of Mother's seizures."

"I don't have the time," Astoria replied. "You take ages to write a letter, anyway."

"Oh, shut up," Daphne snapped. "It's not like we talk that much. What do you want?"

"I need Parkinson's address."

That surprised her. "Parkinson?  _Pansy_  Parkinson?  _You_  want to go visit  _Pansy_?"

Astoria grimaced. "It's not a social call, if that's what you're wondering."

"Well what kind of catastrophe had to happen to make you ever want to get near her? I know you hate her."

"I don't hate her," Astoria said with a scowl. "I don't  _like_  her, but I don't hate her either. And I need to speak to her. She's not answering my letters. It's business."

Daphne smirked, casting a drying spell on her bright blue fingernails. "Well, you do know she changed her last name… maybe that's what's stopping your letters from getting there."

"I'm not stupid, Daph."

Her sister shrugged. "She always was a lazy cow. That's probably why she hasn't answered."

"I thought she was your friend."

Daphne laughed. "Oh, she is. But she's still a cow. She's gotten boring lately, anyway; Sandra's  _so_  much more entertaining. Pansy literally does nothing all day; there's only so much you can talk about when you spend your week locked up in a mansion with about a million bottles of wine."

Astoria eyed the clock that hung on one of the walls of the room. "I have to go. What's the address?"

"Are you comfortable in that little box of yours you call a flat?" Daphne asked, ignoring her. There was an amused gleam in her eye. "You must feel all  _Muggle-born._ Maybe they'll start talking about your War heroics in Witch Weekly soon. Well, they  _are-_ "

"The address, Daphne."

Her sister sighed with exasperation. "All right, fine." She gave her the address. "Tell her I said hi," she added, beginning to work on her other hand. "And tell me how fat she's gotten, later."

Astoria ignored the remark and glanced at her now distracted mother. "Say goodbye to Mother for me later; I'd rather avoid another confrontation. And give my love to Father."

Daphne nodded absently, and Astoria pulled her head out of the flames.

…

The doors swung open and Astoria stepped into the vast entrance hall, trying not to drag her feet the way she wished she could. There was something about the richly embroidered oriental rugs of Julien Prince's new mansion that made her acutely aware of the fact that her dark, simple robes really weren't elegant enough to follow the traditional code of etiquette that was usually important when visiting this kind of homes.

"But I'm here on business," she told herself as she looked up at the high ceiling that curved above her. It was an unusual design that she had never seen anywhere else: not as many pillars and square entrances as she was used to seeing in other rich, pureblood homes. The Prince family had only now emerged from its silence, having lurked in the sidelines of the Wizarding World for decades with their unremarkable publishing firm. But with the end of the War, the rather elderly heir of the family fortune seemed to have managed affairs well, and Julien Prince was starting to be known as the richest, if rather unremarkable, wizard in England... a fact that had always seemed rather suspicious to Astoria, who couldn't help but be wary of a person who had profited from the War, but Mr. Prince, to her knowledge, remained a quiet gentleman nearing his seventieth year who spent most of his fortune on exotic artifacts and apparently had no interest in meddling with Ministry affairs; which was a good thing, she supposed.

She heard footsteps and looked up at the regal staircase that stretched out overhead, lit with white lanterns that floated midair. An elf had already greeted her at the entrance and after disappearing for a brief moment, returned with the words "Mrs. Prince will see you now." Astoria tried to keep the distaste from showing in her expression.

Pansy Prince, once Pansy Parkinson, stopped short at the top of the stairs and looked down at her with some surprise, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Well, I wasn't expecting  _this_  Miss Greengrass."

Astoria smiled coldly. "Hello, Pansy."

Pansy had her hair up in a bun that was slowly coming apart despite the efforts of the jeweled pins that were stuck in it. Her lips gleamed with a heavy beauty charm as she gazed at her guest with a raised eyebrow.

"What're you doing here?" she asked, sounding bored, though Astoria could see a glint of curiosity in her eyes as they flit up Astoria's body, lingering on her plain black robes. " _Evidently_  this isn't a social visit." The  _you'd be dressed better if it was_  went unsaid.

"I sent you about half a dozen letters," Astoria answered dryly.

Pansy shrugged, leaning against the banister lazily. She waved a languid hand, her large wedding ring throwing tiny reflections of the lights onto her face. "I don't really open mail lately. It's mostly just Julien's rubbish."

And from what Astoria had heard, the large quantities of imported wine her husband procured for her did little to help her keep track of her mail. She sighed. "I'm here about Draco Malfoy."

Interest flared in Pansy's eyes, and she straightened, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Oh, right… you're  _doing business_  with him now, aren't you… let's go to the sitting room; here's  _awfully_  uncomfortable for talking."

Pansy turned and made her way back up the stairs, glancing at Astoria over her shoulder to make sure she was following. Astoria did, her feet lingering on the steps a bit longer than usual as she moved towards the second floor. The colorful paintings that hung on the walls of the corridor that branched from the staircase did little to dissipate her dread of being forced to spend time with Pansy after an exhausting day.

And as she stepped into the richly decorated sitting room she was stunned by the prevalence of green and silver everywhere. She didn't even try to hide the surprise. Pansy smirked as she threw herself onto one of the couches, kicking off her embroidered slippers.

"Julien made them make this one for me. Reminds you of the Common Room, doesn't it?" she looked around her idly. "I suppose I sort of miss it. Here's  _much_ nicer, though."

Astoria hesitated slightly as she watched Pansy occupy herself with a copy of  _Witch Weekly_. Finally, she sat down on a nearby armchair with a slight scowl. She was torn between speaking at once and letting Pansy stay silent for just a little bit longer, giving her some instants of peace...

But her indecision didn't last long. With a loud crackle of folding papers, Pansy thrust the magazine towards her folded on a page, her lips curled into a smirk, though there was something strange in her expression that made Astoria uncomfortable.

She glanced at the magazine and almost instantly averted her eyes. The title and the picture of her leaving the Atrium with Draco and Narcissa in the background was enough…

" _Client or lover_?" Pansy read in a high voice, and tossed the magazine to the ground. A House-Elf appeared immediately to remove it. Her eyes bored into Astoria's. "Being naughty, are we, little Astoria? I didn't think you'd turn out worse than your sister. By the way, is she still shagging that Avery bloke?"

Astoria ignored her. "I need a witness for Malfoy's case."

Pansy said nothing for a moment, the smirk still on her lips as she surveyed her in silence. Astoria did her best not to react beneath her stare, and held her gaze.

Finally, Pansy leaned back against the cushions, one of the jeweled pins almost slipping out of her hair entirely. She pursed her lips before she spoke. "I suppose you mean Draco."

"Yes."

"Did he send you here?"

"No."

Pansy looked away. "I don't know what you're looking for, then. You and I both know what Draco did; what his whole family did." She sniffed. "They broke the law; they pay the consequences. He's guilty so he's going to have to pay for it."

Astoria found her fingers curling forcefully around the ruffles of one of the cushions. "You and I both know it's much more complicated than that."

"They were Death Eaters; they got caught." Pansy's eyes were still averted. "Draco should have known better than do all those things."

Astoria snorted. "He should have known better? Don't try to pretend you lived through the War without-"

"My family was cleared," Pansy snapped.

"How long is that going to last?"

Pansy's eyes wandered back to Astoria's face, and she couldn't quite mask the fear that was latent there. Astoria leaned forwards, her hand still clutching the cushion. "How long is it going to be before they find evidence against you? Maybe you won't be imprisoned long… a year or two, maybe. Maybe your husband can pay them off. But what about your brother?"

"If I go down, so does your sister."

The words escaped Pansy in a rush, her face pale, breath coming in quick bursts. Astoria tried not to flinch. She had suspected that Daphne had been involved in something during her school years; she was too close to Pansy and she had heard the quiet rumors that flitted behind the closed doors of pureblood families, the slight suggestions from things her sister's friends murmured about under their breaths… the Parkinson family was not entirely innocent.

But then again, Astoria wasn't entirely sure the Greengrass family was, either.

"I know," she bit out. "And I don't want to know anything about it."

Pansy shrugged nervously. Her eyes were wide and the movement was almost a convulsion, but when she spoke, her tone was forceful. "I'm not getting anywhere near the Ministry. They have nothing on me and they won't. I was a child-"

"So was Draco."

On the couch, Pansy was shaking, and she averted her eyes again, speaking in a low voice. "I don't want to go to Azkaban."

"I know you don't. That's exactly why you need to testify. If I can get Draco out of this mess, there'll be a precedent set for any future cases."

"Zabini got cleared."

"Zabini was lucky," Astoria snapped. "And he hadn't done anything. Can you say the same about yourself? You need Draco to win this case."

In a swift movement, Pansy sat up straight and set her feet on the ground, moving her eyes back to Astoria. Her expression had been put back together, though Astoria could see uncertainty lingering beneath her gaze. "I don't  _need_   _anything_ , Greengrass," she said coldly. "My husband is  _rich_  and if any of this falls on me I'll get out of it. I didn't even do anything that bad. I'm not going anywhere near the Wizengamot. I think you should leave now."

Astoria felt anger seize her, but she forced it down. She had suspected it, but her expectations hadn't helped cushion the full blow of Pansy's self-centered idiocy. Pansy wouldn't even stand up for Daphne in court.

Her eyes cold, she stood up, throwing the cushion back onto the armchair. She grabbed her purse and moved towards the door.

"I hope you're right about your husband," she said coldly, stopping in front of Pansy's couch. "And I hope, for your sake, that my sister doesn't bear the brunt of your idiocy during the War. But mark my words, if Draco loses this case, you'll be next in the trials."

Pansy flew to her feet. "I don't give a fuck about Draco Malfoy," she said heatedly. "All he's ever been is a stuck-up, selfish bastard. He didn't take help when I offered it; he's on his own now. So  _good luck_ , Astoria Greengrass. Send him my regards."

Astoria said nothing and was almost at the door when Pansy called after her again. "And next time, don't come traipsing into my house thinking you're any better than the rest of us because you're sleeping with a Malfoy. Those days are over. The Malfoy name was dead the moment he pushed a Parkinson away."

Astoria almost laughed through her disgust. But she couldn't ignore the weight of the knowledge that Draco Malfoy was now officially friendless. He would have to face the Wizengamot alone, with no living witness.


	7. Chapter 7

His back felt damp.

He stirred slightly and wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Maybe he had. Maybe there'd still been liquid in some of those bottles.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a sensible part of him thought that it would probably sting a lot if the glass tore through his clothes and the wounds touched the alcohol. Part of him could remember what that felt like.

Outside, the sun had gone down, or at least he gathered as much from the darkness that hung around him. The moon shone dimly through the windows and through his blurred vision, he could make out the general shape of the pillars that towered above him all around the room.

Was Father still there?

He groaned slightly and the noise was distant, as if his voice didn't belong to him.

When he was younger, he'd crawled back through the corridor that led to his room, keeping away from the torches on the walls the way he'd learned to years ago in order to avoid the lights giving away his presence. Father could always just wave his hand and the lights wouldn't turn on. Someday he'd be old enough and have the power to do the same. Then he wouldn't have to crawl through the corridors pathetically like this.

In the ballroom, Draco let his memories take over in the silence of the room. He was thirteen again, and he was nearing Father's study, which he had left only a few minutes ago when his mother had escorted him back to his bedroom and tucked him in the way he  _hated._   _I'm not a child anymore, Mother. I can go to bed on my own._

He'd let her do it this time, though, because he was impatient and he wanted to know what she and Father were going to talk about. He had done it many times before; that was how he learned things. That was how he had learned where Father kept the key to the Blue Room filled with dark artifacts. That was how he had learned what Mother's boggart was, which made for some entertainment…

Mother had only just entered the study. He pressed his cheek against the door frame and carefully leaned forwards in the shadows. The corridor was still dark, and only one of the lanterns was lit on the opposite side of the study. He could make out his parents' silhouettes against the white light.

"How did my son become so infuriatingly impertinent?"

His father's voice was a low growl, and Draco felt the angle of the door frame digging into his temple. On the ballroom floor, he pressed himself back onto the ground, small particles of glass moving between his fingers.

Mother's voice was soft. "Don't say that, Lucius. He's a sweet boy."

"He's being  _stupid_ , Narcissa."

Draco gulped down the knot in his throat and watched as Father turned, his back to his wife, fists pressing onto the surface of the large mahogany desk.

"He doesn't know how important it is," Narcissa pleaded. "He's just a child, Lucius. You can't expect him to understand-"

"Well, he's going to have to."

"I understand your stance in this matter, but he's only thirteen… at his age he has more important things to worry about. The past is going to have to catch up with him at some point, but it's not-"

"It's not the past."

He felt, rather than saw, the confusion in his mother. And he felt, rather than heard, the deep worry hidden in his father's voice.

There was a moment of silence, and then Lucius turned and faced his wife. Draco couldn't see most of his face, but he could feel the gravity of the situation hanging in the air. If Father turned and looked towards the doorway, he would probably catch sight of Draco's hair gleaming in the white light… but at that moment, Draco couldn't care less. All he felt was the pressing curiosity which was slowly beginning to turn into unease.

"I've heard things, Narcissa." His father's voice sounded tired, but tenser than Draco had ever heard it. "Rumors are spreading. I wouldn't have bothered telling Draco anything, otherwise. He doesn't need to know about the Dark Lord… but I worry that he will have to, soon."

Mother's voice was so low he couldn't hear her words. He could only make out the trembling of her voice.

"Rumor has it Pettigrew reached Albania last night."

Narcissa was frozen where she stood.

Lucius sighed between gritted teeth. "It seems your cousin didn't really kill him."

"That's impossible," Draco's mother breathed. "There were witnesses, evidence… Crouch would never have let something like that get past him…" she gave a low, mirthless laugh. "Pettigrew can't have survived these many years without anyone noticing…"

"It appears he did. Someone saw him alive earlier this month and word reached my ears. He's in Albania."

"You don't think-"

"Why else would he go there?"

Draco watched in stunned silence, not daring to move, as his mother gave a low shriek and shook where she stood, looking as if she were about to faint. Lucius stepped forward immediately, reaching out to wrap her in his arms as she held onto his shoulders, her wide eyes gleaming in the light. Draco had never seen such fear in them.

His father was speaking in a low voice. He could barely hear the words. "-probably not clever enough to do it, I don't even know if it's possible… it's not very probable, but the truth of the matter is I'm not the only person who heard the rumors and even if nothing happens, if Pettigrew fails, we might have to face some conflict. You know how they-"

"They're probably all mad by now."

"That's precisely why we need to be aware of the threat," Lucius said. "And if,  _if_  the worst does come to pass, we must be prepared."

"If… if he does come back," Narcissa said, her voice tremulous. "He'll win this time. He'll be too strong."

"The Ministry's weaker now than it ever was, yes. It will fall in a heartbeat."

"Lucius," his mother said, seizing the front of her husband's robes, her wide eyes almost unblinking. "Things are different now. We have Draco."

Lucius leaned forwards and pressed his forehead to his wife's, and his voice was softer than Draco had ever heard it. "I know, Cissy. I won't let this hurt us. If we play our cards right, we'll emerge even stronger."

"I don't want to play at all."

"We might not have a choice."

…

The lift rattled into place, and with a low chime the doors opened. Draco glanced briefly at Astoria, his hands in his pockets.

She had been surprised to see him like that, he could tell. He had shaved that morning, once he had finally managed to shake all the broken glass from his hair and gotten rid of the stench of alcohol from his body. Greengrass hadn't said anything about it, but he could tell that she was started by the effort he had made to look suitable for the occasion.

He hadn't thought he would feel up to anything on the day of his trial, but he had woken up feeling oddly refreshed after the chaotic night he had spent on his own yet again, on the ballroom floor. Maybe the yelling had helped, or maybe all the drinking had actually done him good for once… he didn't really remember much. But he felt oddly carefree despite the tension in the air and the knowledge that his trial would begin in fifteen minutes and he would probably leave the Ministry under arrest.

He supposed it was his brain reacting to weeks of strain; something had to give, somewhere. Maybe it had been his sanity.

He didn't really mind. He felt numb and it was certainly preferable to the overwhelming despair he had felt before.

Greengrass, on the other hand, didn't look anywhere near as calm as he felt. Her eyes were wide and fixed on a point overhead, her jaw tense, her knuckles white as she clutched the same briefcase he had seen her carry on the day of his mother's trial. Against her black robes and the dark curtain of her hair, her skin looked almost ghostly. There was a certain electric air about her that made him feel like it was best not to approach her unless she said something.

It must be an important day for her.  _Not as important as it is for you_  said some part of his mind. He pushed it away.

Murmurs filled the busy corridor before the courtroom as they pushed through the large group of people that were gathered there. Draco wasn't sure if the murmurs had begun as they entered or if they had been there long before they appeared. Either way, he didn't really care. He merely followed Greengrass, hands in his pockets, his face expressionless as he ignored the stares.

"You came alone," Astoria had remarked when she saw him at the Atrium. She looked at him intensely, but he had a feeling it had more to do with the intensity of her thoughts than it did with him.

He had glanced at the Aurors flanking him. They weren't the same ones from the Manor, thank Merlin. Those had stayed behind to pretend to guard his mother.

"Is it a problem?" he had asked.

She had seemed to think about it for a moment, a small frown between her eyebrows, before shaking her head once. "It might get you points for pity. I can use that."

He didn't know how he felt about that.

Oh well.

They passed a group of goblins as they neared the courtroom door. They stood huddled together, whispering in their growling voices. One of them turned as he passed and Draco accidentally caught his eye; the goblin's eyes narrowed, but he looked away without a word, a gesture that was almost one of deference, in a way. The Malfoys had always held the respect of goblins because of their large amounts of gold. Things had changed drastically, but old habits would die hard.

Even through his newfound inner peace, Draco could hear his father's voice reciting the family refrain, over and over again, over and over again…

Astoria glanced back at him for the briefest second, and his mind fell silent.

Ernie Macmillan stood just outside the open door of the courtroom, exchanging a quick word with a plump man in the heavy robes of the Wizengamot. As the wizard retreated back into the room, which already had many more people in it than it had on Draco's mother's trial, Macmillan turned and gave Astoria a smile.

"I'll buy you a drink after this is over."

Astoria knew he meant well, but she glared at him all the same. "No, you won't."

She turned her face away from him and they walked into the vast courtroom before the eyes of the entire Wizengamot, as well as a surprisingly large assortment of people Draco preferred to ignore. Maybe Dennis Creevey was somewhere in there, Crabbe's mother, Merlin knew how many other people probably loathed him enough to go watch him be sentenced to a life in Azkaban.

Well, they could watch.

"You visited Parkinson," he said, low enough for only Greengrass to hear as they were seated before the Wizengamot and the empty benches where the Minister and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where supposed to sit.

"It's Prince, now," she corrected him as she set her briefcase beside her, arranging parchment on her desk.

"Whatever," he drawled, crossing his fingers over the table and keeping his eyes away from the crowd's. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"I needed witnesses, since you're being so astonishingly cooperative," she said sarcastically. Astoria surprised herself with her tone; the tension before the trial seemed to have made her a bit more aggressive. It was a good thing, she supposed. "How do you know about that, anyway?"

He grimaced. "She wrote to me this morning, of course.  _Stop sending your hoes my way, Draco_. What in the world made you think speaking to that bint would be a good idea?"

Astoria snorted as her eyes scanned the pages before her quickly. "Did she actually say that? I didn't really have my hopes up. It was just something I had to get out of the way."

"Yeah, well, next time I'd appreciate it if you didn't piss her off so bad that she starts sending me letters."

There was a rustle of movement in the room as the doors swung open once more and Kingsley Shacklebolt entered, followed closely by William Weasley. Their expressions were grave. As the people in the room finally began to quiet down and take their seats, Astoria took a deep breath and turned to Draco.

"You're in a good mood today."

He shrugged. "I'm just not in the mood to give anyone the satisfaction."

She couldn't quite help the smile that crept onto her lips as the Minister stepped forwards.

He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent; a silence broken only by the soft scratches of Edgecombe's quill from where she sat in the corner, taking note of the proceedings. Draco could feel all eyes on him. He kept his gaze fixed on the desk before him and tried to fight the steadily rising feeling of unease that threatened to overthrow the calm numbness that he had felt so far.

Well, at least he hadn't lost his sanity, he supposed.

"The Wizengamot is present today to pass judgment on the case of Draco Lucius Malfoy."

Astoria saw the expressions on the faces of the Council and could feel the aversion of the people watching. It didn't help that Draco had his father's name. As if people weren't thinking of him as a mini-Lucius already. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and she hoped her client didn't notice how nervous she was. She also hoped Draco hadn't realized that this was technically her first real trial as a defense barrister.

She avoided Macmillan's gaze.  _He_  had certainly realized it.

"-accused of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards, self-named Death Eaters, under the command of Voldemort, in the murder, torture and other crimes committed against Wizarding and Muggle population from the year 1996 to 1998. In addition, he is accused of: aiding in the infiltration and attack on Hogwarts in 1997, assisting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, being responsible for the attack on Katherine Bell through Dark Magic, participating in various Death Eater meetings and witnessing over 30 tortures of innocent Muggles, Witches and Wizards, participating in the sacking of Ollivander's Wand Shop, witnessing the murder of the Muggle Wendy Stewart, submitting two Ministry officials to the Imperius Curse, and participating in the Battle of Hogwarts in support of the Death Eaters, assisting in the murder of hundreds and witches and wizards, many of them students."

It was a long list. Longer than his mother's was. Beside him, Astoria was running her eyes over the very same list, probably making sure they hadn't put in anything new. Her lips curved slightly, so slightly he almost missed it.

"What?" he muttered, taking advantage of the curtain of low murmurs that had risen among the crowd.

"They didn't mention the mead poisoning of Weasley. It was never directly connected to you; and it could have been an accident, anyway."

"It wasn't, exactly," he said, looking away, but then he turned back again. "Did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get them to take that out. It was in the original list, wasn't it?"

She smirked so subtly he was probably the only one in the room who could have noticed it. "Of course."

Something about her smile helped ease the heavy weight of the angry buzz that surrounded him in the courtroom. He kept his eyes on the desk.

Shacklebolt waited a second for the murmurs to die down and then called out. "To these accusations, how does the accused plead?"

Astoria stood up swiftly, taking Draco by surprise. He had almost forgotten what her role was. "To this the accused pleads innocent, on grounds of coercion and blackmail, both from the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters and from his own family, used to force him into participating in these criminal acts at a young and susceptible age."

Draco tried to ignore the scornful snorts he heard behind him.

With a nod, the Minister continued. "Present for this trial today are: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; William Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Percival Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Court Scribe, Marietta Edgecombe. As Prosecuting Barrister, Ernest Macmillan; as Defense Barrister, Astoria Greengrass."

Macmillan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The friendly, slightly harrowed expression he usually wore had disappeared, replaced by a cold, serious demeanor that almost seemed to make him taller as he stepped forwards.

"It's almost hard to know where to begin in this case," he said, his voice ringing across the courtroom. "I believe we are all familiar with the circumstances of at least a few of the crimes of which he has been accused. But history has proven to us that at times it is not enough to expose the details of the crimes to the Council; in previous cases, it has been easy for the accused to claim being cursed or blackmailed. All too often, we have later realized that their claims were lies." He paused almost theatrically, looking around towards the faces of the Wizengamot. "So how then, can we define Draco Malfoy's character? What defines a true Death Eater? Other than the mark they bear on their forearms (which, incidentally, the accused bears), it is their motivations that prove them a danger to our society and even to Muggle society."

He had guessed it. He had guessed their strategy.

She cursed silently.

Was he going to pull out Barty Crouch Jr.'s case?

Had he lined up the entire trial to showcase Draco's childhood?

"All evidence has pointed to the fact that Draco Malfoy acted as his nature provoked. As a child, he was a bully with a strong prejudice towards Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards; countless times he demonstrated an aggressive, hate-filled and discriminatory view of the world. It was his nature that prompted him to join the Death Eaters along with his father, Lucius Malfoy. It was his nature that moved him to attack the students of Hogwarts and bring about the death of one of the greatest wizards that ever lived. It was his nature that made him take the Dark Lord's side in the War that brought so much death to the wizarding community. And such a nature  _cannot_ , under any circumstances, go unpunished. We have a responsibility with our fallen brothers and sisters, and that responsibility is to punish those who caused so much pain and destruction so as to avoid it ever happening again. The evidence I will present will prove beyond doubt that the accused is not only guilty of the crimes listed in this courtroom, but that he carried out these acts with the intent of causing harm to wizarding society and benefiting the plans of the Dark Lord Voldemort."

His pronouncing the Dark Lord's name certainly added some shock value to his speech... she had to give him that. The people in the courtroom were still frightened of the name out of pure instinct.

Was it only her, or did Macmillan hold her gaze for a millisecond before returning to his seat? Astoria battled with twin feelings of relief and frustration. It could always be worse. His prosecution would be based off of Draco's nature instead of the actual crimes he had committed; and Draco was definitely guilty of the crimes.

Wizarding Law had changed since the First War. Astoria suspected that Lucius Malfoy's case had been part of the reason for the change; which was rather ironic, if it proved to be Draco's salvation. The Wizengamot was now less inclined to look at the circumstances of the crimes, and preferred to discover what drove them. Had they had such a strategy back in 1981, Draco would probably have grown up without a father.

All in all, they might actually be lucky that Macmillan was helping her focus the trial on Draco's intentions, which were the one thing that Astoria could really work with.

Some part of her had to love Macmillan for his righteousness.

She stood up.

Draco watched as she stepped forwards and noticed that the nerves had disappeared from her expression. She was now the same woman he had seen during his mother's trial nearly a week before: calm, collected and skillful.

"I have to say that in this instance, I agree with the prosecuting barrister," she said. "There truly is no better way to study this case than by analyzing the true nature of my client. But I call the Wizengamot to consider the accused from a deeper perspective; not merely gazing at the mask that the simplified observation of society has cast upon a young boy who grew up in the midst of the most prejudicial minds of the Wizarding community. I ask you to see him as a child, not as a grown man, because in the years that led up to the Second War he had to face problems as a child, unprepared to withstand the influences of anyone around him. He began his schooling in Hogwarts not as a Death Eater, but as an insecure teenager with few friends, acutely aware of the pressure his parents, especially his father, exerted on his future. With the rise of the Dark Lord and his father's growing role in the Death Eater's inner circle, he was forced to carry out acts under the threat of harm being done not only to himself, but to his family as well. My client is not guilty."

She sat down, eyes on the Wizengamot. Many of the people sitting on the benches in plum-colored robes knew the social pressure the Death Eaters had exerted closely, though perhaps not as closely as the Malfoys had. Sandra Twycross and Lizbeth Scamander, in particular, had been friends of her mother's and had shared their preoccupations with her in the early days. She made a point of catching their eye.

It was an odd feeling, knowing that almost every single person in the courtroom disagreed with her.

They called for Macmillan's first witness.

"Please state your name and living address for the jury."

"Gregor Drogan Borgin, 33 Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burke's."

Beside her, Draco hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes had moved to look at the stooping, greasy-haired man who went to sit crouched in the seat before the room, his bloodshot eyes watching Ernie Macmillan nervously as he cleared his throat again in a way that might have been meant to be reassuring. All eyes were on the witness, and Astoria took advantage of the moment to study the audience carefully. She thought she recognized a few of the more distant Rosier relatives, Macmillan's bride-to-be, and Amelia Bones' nephew. And was that Bulstrode sitting huddled at the back of the room, the lower part of her face enveloped with a scarf?

At least one of the 'Children of the Dark Side' had realized how important the case was.

She took the quill in front of her and toyed with it absentmindedly as Macmillan turned to the witness.

"Mr. Borgin, what would you say is your relationship with the accused?"

Borgin didn't seem to dare to glance at Draco, keeping his eyes on some distant point ahead of him, his lips shaking slightly as he spoke in a raspy voice. "For twenty five years I've had dealings with the Malfoy family."

"What manner of dealings?"

Borgin gulped, looking rather uncomfortable. "We traded Magical Artifacts."

Macmillan nodded, pacing slowly before the witness. "And during these dealings, did you come in contact with the accused often?"

Borgin nodded jerkily. "He came in with Lucius a few times… annoying little bastard, he was."

"Objection." All eyes turned to Astoria in an instant. She had risen, her eyes fixed on the Minister. "Non-responsive."

Shacklebolt stared at her with some irritation and then sighed. "Sustained. Please respond to the questions directly, Mr. Borgin, and refrain from crude language."

Astoria sat down and Macmillan stifled his annoyance before repeating the question. "During these dealings, did you come in contact with the accused often?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"Lucius would visit the shop to buy my products," said Borgin. "He would often leave with a trinket or two that caught his fancy. He was partial to the more…  _grandiose-looking_  products. Said they decorated his drawing room nicely. In later years he sometimes visited with an inventory of his own, trying to sell me his own property." He looked as if he wanted to add another remark, but he held back, probably afraid of being addressed again by the Minister.

"And these Magical Artifacts," Macmillan said. "Of what nature were they?"

Borgin's face twisted into an uncomfortable grimace. "They've been called Dark Objects. Some were dangerous."

Macmillan nodded and turned to the Wizengamot. "I must mention that Borgin and Burkes has had much of its property confiscated by the Ministry over the past three years, and Borgin has already paid steep fees for Possession of Objects of Dark Magic and Dangerous Artifacts. His shop now adheres to Magical Law and is under constant observation. Mr. Borgin," he continued, turning back to the crouching man. "On the instances in which Draco Malfoy visited your shop, what was his attitude regarding the products on display?"

"He was always curious; always trying to touch them, even when he wasn't allowed to. He had a fascination towards them."

"Did it at any point seem that his father  _coerced_  him into looking or touching these dark artifacts?"

"No. He did so even when Lucius told him not to."

"So he was disobedient as a child?"

"From what I saw, yes."

Macmillan nodded again. Astoria was still turning the quill over in her fingers mechanically, her expression serene as she listened carefully. Beside her, Draco seemed to watch with a distinct air of lazy resignation.

"Thank you, Mr. Borgin. Now, may we speak of August 3rd, 1996. You were approached by the accused?"

"Yes."

"In what way did he approach you?"

"He came to my shop and showed me his Dark Mark."

There were sharp intakes of breath in the audience. Astoria glanced down with some satisfaction at the parchment before her which detailed the exact same story she was about to hear from Borgin. The testimony might add some dramatic value to the case Macmillan was making, but she was well prepared for it.

"And why did he show you his Dark Mark?"

"He meant it as a threat. He wanted me to help him repair a Vanishing Cabinet. I didn't want to: they can be very dangerous."

Beside her, Draco snorted almost inaudibly. "Bullshit. He wanted me to pay him twice as much."

"Did he explain why he wanted this Vanishing Cabinet?"

"No, he did not. Only that he could not bring it to me."

"What did he say when he showed you his Mark?"

"He threatened to set Greyback on me; said he was a family friend and he'd be dropping in from time to time. He told me not to tell anyone, not even his mother. He insulted me. He was proud of being a Death Eater."

"Thank you, Mr. Borgin. That is all." Macmillan turned away from Borgin and faced the rest of the room. "As you are all aware, the Vanishing Cabinet that the accused had Borgin repair was the one used to infiltrate Hogwarts Castle in 1997, causing minor to major injuries to its defenders and the tragic death of Albus Dumbledore." It could be argued that Dumbledore's death had not exactly been brought on by the battle, given that he had planned it and Snape had merely been acting on orders from Dumbledore himself, but Shacklebolt had assured Astoria that the attack on Hogwarts had forced the circumstances to lead to the death of the Headmaster. Had there not been an attack, Snape would not have had to commit the murder.  _It sucks for your case, but you have to admit it's true_ , Macmillan had told her with a grim smile.

"With this testimony in mind, consider the accused's attitude towards the objects he found in Borgin and Burke's. From an early age, he manifested an interest in Dark Magic: an attitude that did not subside over the following years. This interest was not feigned; it was not born from peer pressure or even the pressure of his family. In fact, as we have heard, at times he even manifested a rebellious attitude."

Ernie drew his wand and produced a parchment from his desk. With a flick of his wand, the contents of the page were projected onto the wall to his left. "This is a record of Draco Malfoy's detentions and point loss over his years at Hogwarts. As you can see, he does not exactly have the best track record when it comes to obeying authority. Points were taken for ignoring explicit orders from teachers, leaving the school grounds without permission, harassing other students, copying in examinations-"

"Objection, Minister. Irrelevant to the case. Hundreds of students do similar things in school; breaking rules at Hogwarts can in no way demonstrate a person's criminal intent! The greatest heroes of the War were  _known_  troublemakers-"

"Overruled." Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice was sharp.

Astoria sat down without another word, but her work was done. Sitting on the bench beside the Minister, Bill Weasley's lips were curved in a small, sad smile. His younger brother, the Minister's Undersecretary, was suddenly busied with looking through the rolls of parchment on his lap, eyes gleaming behind his horn-rimmed glasses. It was subtle, but even Macmillan had to realize that his first piece of evidence had already lost many council members' regard.

Their gazes met as she turned back to look at him, and his cheeks were slightly reddened with determination. He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "-fights with other students, disrupting the peace in the school corridors, and a  _remarkably_ frequent use of disparaging slurs against Muggle-borns." He paused for effect, the projection on the wall zooming into the items on the list Macmillan was mentioning. "In fact, during his years at Hogwarts, the accused demonstrated hatred towards Muggles and open disrespect to Muggle-born students, even going as far as to address them with slurs before the entire student body and staff." He shuffled his papers slightly and with another flick of his wand, a new slip of parchment was exhibited. "As you can see here, on the 31st of October, 1992, in the face of the first incident of the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets, he exclaimed  _'They'll get you all, -omitted-!'"_

"That's not what I said," said Draco in a low voice at Astoria's ear.

"What?" she said with a start. She had been engrossed in the evidence, her mind rushing through information, adding the finishing touches to her next speech. Finally his words registered. "Are you sure?" she asked in a low hiss, turning swiftly to him, her eyes wide. "If it's wrong-"

He stared at her for a second, his grey eyes unreadable. Finally, his lips curved slightly. "I said ' _You'll be next, Mudbloods',_ not  _'They'll get you all, Mudbloods'._ "

For some reason she had to hold back her amusement.

"So," Macmillan continued. "So far we have learned that Draco Malfoy had great interest in the Dark Arts, constantly rebelled against authority, was prejudiced against Muggle-borns and Muggles and was not afraid to act based on his skewed beliefs. Already, these are actions that, had he been overage at the time, would have been more enough reason to arrest him.

"But he is still a teenager at the time in which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comes in to power. And his family shows its true colors by siding with the Death Eaters. Following Lucius Malfoy's arrest after the attack on the Department of Mysteries, the accused visits Mr. Borgin and shows him his Dark Mark, threatening to set a known feral werewolf on him. He shows pride in being a Death Eater and a strong sense of being entitled to threaten and torture as he sees fit, acting on the orders of his Master which result in terrible harm being done to the students and staff of Hogwarts as well as the Order of the Phoenix. We can see the results of Draco Malfoy's actions here; some scars will remain forever."

Astoria was surprised and rather impressed at Macmillan's gall. She dared not glance at Bill Weasley's scarred face, but she knew almost everyone else was doing it. She could almost see the smirk in Ernie's eyes:  _two can play at this game, Greengrass._

"But even then, even after already declaring himself a Death Eater, Draco Malfoy had a chance of redemption. A chance so evident that it is impossible to say that he could not have been aware that it existed. This chance walked past him every day in the school corridors in the shape of Severus Snape, Professor and Head of House, as well as a family friend. And even if Malfoy wasn't aware of Snape's true loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix at the time he was, like almost everyone else, aware of the story of Snape turning on Voldemort towards the end of the First War, and his redemption.

"The accused had  _every chance_  to turn back and do what was right. He was surrounded by great witches and wizards, grew up in a powerful, wealthy Wizarding family and, unlike many of the Death Eaters of the First War, he had not been fooled into believing that the Death Eaters were something they were not. He was aware of their nature from the very beginning, and yet he still carried out Voldemort's orders with blind devotion. He was not coerced, he was not deceived: his very behavior as a child proves that becoming a Death Eater was the expected result of his already corrupted nature."

Draco didn't move, his hands still folded on the table as he leaned forwards slightly, eyes now focused on the desk before him. Astoria felt a strange stirring of unease within her as she watched him from out of the corner of her eye.

She tried to remind herself that he was, in a way, responsible for most of it.

 _But he still doesn't deserve_ this _._

Ernie Macmillan returned to his seat, face slightly flushed, his expression serious but satisfied, though his eyes remained alert as Astoria Greengrass stood up after giving the papers in front of her a quick once-over. Draco couldn't help it; his eyes moved towards her, almost fascinated by the confidence she exuded when she stepped forwards before the jury and Gregor Borgin.

"Mr. Borgin," she began. "When you speak of the times my client visited your shop, to which years are you referring to?"

The man ran a hand over his greasy hair, averting his eyes with a shaky frown. "I- I suppose… 1990 to 1995 or so?"

"Objection," Macmillan called out. "Calls for speculation."

"Overruled. If your witness testifies then he ought to remember the dates."

"It was infrequent, over a series of years… Lucius didn't always bring him," Borgin said quickly, as if afraid of some sort of punishment.

"Draco Malfoy was born in 1980, which means that during his first visit to your shop he was most likely only ten years old." Astoria looked up at the jury for a second before returning her eyes to the witness. "When my client visited your shop did he ever express a wish to  _use_  any of the objects on display?"

Borgin gulped and shook his head almost reluctantly. "No, I don't believe so."

"Don't you think it's almost  _normal_  for a ten year old to be somewhat curious about Dark Magic?"

"Objection. Leading question."

"Sustained. Have care, Miss Greengrass."

She nodded almost distractedly. "Mr. Borgin, when my client and his father visited your shop, did you ever hear the conversations between them?"

"At times, yes."

"Did my client often disobey his father's orders, or show reluctance to do so?"

"Often."

"Do you think it could be said that Draco was seeking attention?"

Macmillan looked peeved. "Objection, Minister! Leading question."

Shacklebolt gave him a look that projected a bit more than mere irritation. "Overruled."

Macmillan ground his teeth, but Astoria ignored him, her eyes fixed on Borgin.

"I… yes, I suppose you could see it that way."

"And when my client threatened you to get you to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, did he seem excited about his project?"

"No."

"Would you say that he looked confident?"

"…no."

"How would you describe him?"

Borgin's eyes seemed to jerk towards where Draco sat, almost on impulse, before he fixed his hard gaze on the ground. "He looked proud."

"But not confident."

"No."

"I think there's another adjective somewhere in there."

Macmillan frowned but held his tongue. Borgin spoke reluctantly. "He looked… frightened. Proud, but frightened."

Astoria nodded, a grim smile on her lips. "Thank you, Mr. Borgin. That is all."

As the Aurors escorted Borgin away, the doors of the courtroom opened even as the next witness was announced.

Draco stared as she entered, dumbfounded. Of all the people he had expected to testify on his behalf, she was the last. He hadn't even known that she  _could_.

And then the memories rushed back all at once and he found himself staring at his knuckles, bright white pushing violently against his pale skin as he tried not to think. He begged the numbness to return.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Astoria step a bit closer. Almost against his will, he looked up. She was staring at him, even as the rest of the room focused on the witness who was being led to the seat, and there was something about her eyes that helped ease his knuckles into peace. He looked away as she turned back towards where she was supposed to stand.

"Excuse me, Minister," spoke up an old warlock, his wrinkled skin looking odd under the smooth velvet of his plum-colored robes. "I wasn't aware we can have this sort of witness."

"It is allowed, Elphias," said Percy Weasley, clearing his throat as he sharpened his quill swiftly with his wand. "According to the Stump Statute of 1811."

The wizard nodded and sat back, and the courtroom fell silent once more.

"Please state your name and address."

The ghost of a girl with glasses floated depressingly over the bench, her eyes wide and shining even more than ghost eyes usually did from behind her lank hair. She spoke in a slightly choked voice. "Myrtle. Girl's bathroom on the first floor, Hogwarts."

She sounded frightened.

"Myrtle, could you tell us how you know Draco Malfoy?" Astoria's voice was considerably more gentle than it had been when dealing with Borgin.

Myrtle looked positively terrified, but she somehow got the words out. "He came to my bathroom."

"How many times did he visit you?"

Myrtle gulped, but seemed to lose some of her inhibition at the question. She even looked rather proud, though her eyes were still brimming with tears.

"He visited me twice," she said tremulously. "Well, the first time he didn't exactly know I was there… I think he just went through the first door he found. Lucky it was mine." She giggled suddenly, as if she had forgotten all about the number of people surrounding her. "I gave him quite a scare, I did. I floated right through the stall he was leaning against. He almost died, poor thing."

Something about her smile made it look like she would consider that a pleasant result.

"The second time it was because he missed me. We had a long conversation before-"

Astoria cut her off. "How would you describe my client when he visited you, both times?"

Myrtle looked rather miffed at the interruption, but she stopped to think the question over. "Sad," she said, finally. "He was crying. His eyes were red and he was sobbing into the sink. It was kind of pathetic, really. He wouldn't stop. Poor thing."

"What year was this?"

Myrtle shrugged, which made her float up slightly higher than before.

"Ghosts and years," said Bill Weasley with a low laugh. "I suppose we can assume it was 1996; we can check the facts later."

Astoria nodded with relief. "Did he tell you why he was crying?"

"He kept repeating ' _I can't do it, I can't do it'_. I kept asking him what it was, but he wouldn't tell me. I told him I could help but he said nobody could help him. And he just kept crying."

"Thank you, Myrtle. That is all."

The Minister turned to Macmillan, but he shook his head. He didn't want to do a cross-examination. The ghost was excused and she floated away, accompanied by an Auror who didn't look too pleased with his task.

Astoria then turned to the audience and to the Wizengamot, her eyes passing over Draco only once, so quickly he almost didn't notice. He had managed to remain oddly disconnected from the testimony Myrtle had given, noting only some relief at the fact that they didn't touch on Potter's attack shortly after that. He didn't think he could take them mentioning it. He focused his eyes on Astoria as she took a deep breath before she spoke. When she opened her mouth, her voice rang out clearly. " _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper."_

Draco barely suppressed the involuntary shiver that ran down his spine. How could she possibly know? He knew he hadn't told her about the way his father's voice echoed in his mind, or the words he whispered to him with all the forced pride he could muster, every time he visited him in Azkaban. He pressed his fingers so hard together he could feel his fingernails painfully against his own skin, but he forced his face to remain impassive.

She did, after all, know much more about him than probably anyone had ever known. And it was her job to expose it all before the entirety of the Wizengamot and the audience. From where he sat, he could feel Dennis Creevey's gaze boring into the back of his neck; he didn't know how much of it was merely his imagination.

Where was that simple numbness that had filled him only a few minutes before?"

" _Sanctimonia Viincet Semper_ ," Greengrass repeated. "' _Purity will always conquer_.' This is the Malfoy House motto, the one that has decorated their coat of arms for as far as they can remember. It is the one that all Malfoy children have ingrained into their minds since they can talk; it is what brings them pride in the identity of their family." She paused and smiled wryly. "Many of us are from families like the Malfoy family: ancient families with a legacy that goes so far back we aren't entirely sure where it comes from, families that know and carry the coat of arms and have learned the refrain by heart. And in most cases, this is harmless. It is a source of pride and unity. But in cases like that of the Malfoy family, these simple words carry a much heavier meaning and are the reflection of what the family stands for.

"You say that my client was disrespectful of Muggles and Muggle-borns? Is it really all that surprising? The Malfoys have always been renowned in the Wizarding community for the high value they give to the so-called 'pure-blood'. In fact, some believe that Brutus Malfoy was in part responsible for the inclusion of the word 'pure-blood' to common magical vocabulary. So is it really surprising to discover that a child of eleven years of age who was educated at home by a coddling mother (whose family, by the way, wore the words ' _always pure'_  all too proudly) and an overbearing, once Death Eater father, finds himself in the midst of children from families he has been taught to despise and begins to act as he has been taught to?" She shook her head. "No! It is a natural reaction. A sad, tragic reaction, that reflects on the misguided beliefs that were implanted in his mind since he was born, but not one that can be judged as  _criminal_. And Lucius Malfoy took his ten-year-old son to a shop that sold Dark Objects.  _Any_  child would be fascinated by these objects simply out of childish curiosity. Draco had no intention of  _using_  these objects; he was as curious about them as anyone his age would be.

"He rebels against authorities: I will disregard the examples of detention. As I previously stated, I don't believe detention or points taken from Slytherin should count as evidence in a criminal trial. But the disobedience, the resentment he did show towards his father at times, while at the same time calling for his help whenever the need struck, are manifestations of a severe need for attention. He has been compared to Severus Snape, but you  _cannot_  compare them. You  _cannot_  say that because Snape was able to break away from the Dark Side so easily, Draco should have been able to. Unlike Snape, Draco was too young to deal with the decisions he faced. Unlike Snape, Draco grew up in a loving family that sincerely cared for him, but gradually fed him lies and prejudicial beliefs along with that love. Every punishment Draco received as a child was punishment for disappointing his father: he came to believe that it was all that mattered, and strove constantly to satisfy a father that could never be satisfied. Draco knew no world other than the close-knit 'pure-blood' circles he had been raised in, and by the time he was old enough to realize what his family had led him into, it was too late.

"He was  _fifteen_  when his father, the central figure of his life, was imprisoned, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned to him to punish his family for Lucius's failure. After a life of bearing almost no real responsibility, he was suddenly thrust into a world where his failure would mean his parents' death. At school he had no true friends he could go to, and he was desperate to finally prove himself in his father's eyes. This was not a battle of Death Eaters versus the Wizarding World for Draco Malfoy; this was a battle for his own survival and that of his family. He was a lost child who suddenly found himself with too much responsibility, who suddenly realized that his parents were weak and powerless to save him or themselves, who had to look across his own dining table and see the Dark Lord's eyes staring right back at him."

The courtroom buzzed with silence as Astoria took her seat once more.

She turned to Draco and saw that he was looking at her, his gaze unreadable. She was just about to say something to him in a low voice when Macmillan spoke up.

"Prosecution calls another witness to testify."

The courtroom doors opened, and a young man walked in. Draco looked up and felt his heart freeze within him, as if shards of ice had penetrated his chest.

Theodore Nott moved to take the seat before them.


	8. Chapter 8

That backstabbing, shameless son of a-

"Draco."

He heard her voice in the distance, as if through a heavy curtain. He couldn't move his eyes from Nott's as his old classmate took a seat, his gaze straying to Draco with heavily masked derision as an Auror spoke to him in a low voice.

How dare he come into the courtroom clutching at Macmillan's skirts like some righteous, timid witness; as if he hadn't forced him against the wall of his own house while he was petrified, as if he hadn't threatened his and his mother's lives? How dare he stare at him so calmly with that keen, thin face, taunting him with his gaze? Was he here to prove himself right? That the Wizarding World would believe  _anyone_  if it got a Malfoy imprisoned?

_"If you say a word about what happened with Scrimgeour, I'll have someone kill you before you even leave the courtroom. Believe me; it isn't hard to find someone willing to do it."_

He could feel the blood rushing through the artery at his neck, pushing against his throat. He could almost hear it. The Auror finished speaking to Nott and stepped away; had Nott paid this one off also?

He remembered the sound of Nott's seventeen-year-old voice in the hall of the Manor, remembered the shape of the shadow he had cast on the shining floors and the way his eyes had gleamed as Rufus Scrimgeour had been dragged in through the doorway… had he been alive or dead then? It didn't matter. All that had mattered was the reflection of Nott's stooping form against the dead's glassy eyes as he surveyed the damage with silent, eerie interest.

And Draco had kept near the walls, staying in the shadows, powerless to look away but terrified that his eyes might wander and catch sight of a pair of gleaming red ones…

And here was Nott, testifying against him. It wasn't even a move to save his own skin; Draco could forgive that, though it wouldn't heighten his esteem in the least. But Nott had nothing to gain from it.

Nott smirked at him through his eyes, his face impassive but his gaze like a taunting cry.  _You can't tell anyone. They'd never believe you._

They would think he was merely trying to shut the witness up.

"Draco."

He snapped out of his reverie almost violently as Greengrass' hand touched his shoulder. She was staring at him almost with alarm.

"You're shaking," she stated evenly, in a low voice.

His hands were already curled into fists again. He forced them open and saw the faint crescent lines of his nails dotting his palms, his muscles reluctantly relinquishing their brutal hold. He spoke through gritted teeth, forcing his body to let go of the rage it seemed inclined to allow invade him.

"I'm fine."

She smiled at him, but he knew it was just for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. He could see the alarm in her eyes, but she held back, turning as Macmillan stood up once more and Nott introduced himself at his request. He looked away and forced himself to keep his eyes on the desk in front of him, watching Astoria's fist open and close just within his line of vision.

His mind had connected the dots the moment he had seen Nott, and he didn't want to look at her.

"How do you know Draco Malfoy?"

Nott spoke with all the calmness the other witnesses had lacked. "Our fathers knew each other. We saw each other a lot when we were children, and we went to school together. We were in the same year in Slytherin."

"Would you say you were the accused's friend?"

"No. We knew each other, that's all. We didn't speak much in school."

"But it could be said that you watched him grow up?"

"I suppose so. Yes."

Macmillan lifted the parchment he held in his hand and glanced at it briefly, prolonging the pause. He had taken note of Astoria's defense, and he was going to pick it apart with all the accuracy of a surgeon.

"Did the accused have friends?"

"In family events he would speak to Pansy Parkinson a lot. But he was always with Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe."

"Would you say, then, that he was a lonely boy?"

"No. He could always find friends when he wanted them."

His father had said that once. It had had something to do with how making sure you invest in the right people…  _a Malfoy will always have friends wherever he goes_.

_Oh, you are so wrong, Father._

"Did he ever seem sad, to you?"

Nott frowned slightly. Despite his proud posture and his clear remarks, he didn't seem to be able to bring himself to look at Macmillan. Maybe even he realized how despicable his actions were. The only way Macmillan would have ever found him to testify would be if Nott himself had stepped forward and offered to do so. "I don't believe so, no."

"You say you were not the accused's friend; but you did speak to him often, outside of school, correct?"

Nott smiled thinly. "Shared conversation does not always mean friendship."

"Please answer the question." Macmillan didn't seem to like his witness very much despite Nott's usefulness.

" _Yes_."

"Did he ever speak of his father?"

"Yes, he did. A bit too much, if you ask me."

"What attitude did he have towards his father in these conversations?"

"He usually used him to boast.  _Father has the Minister's trust; he could do anything if he wanted_.  _Father says he'll buy me the latest broomstick for my birthday. Father says we can afford expensive tastes; after all, we_ are _Malfoys._ " He gave a low, cold chuckle. "He also used him as a threat.  _My father will hear about this! Don't do it or I'll tell Father!"_ _  
_

"Did he ever seem afraid of his father, or seem mistreated?"

"No. I'd say he was a spoiled brat."

Macmillan raised an eyebrow. "So, you would say he felt entitled to people's respect?" _  
_

"Yes."

"For what reasons?"

"His blood status, his rich family... in school he used to boast a lot about the grades he got in Potions."

"You mentioned his blood status. It is clear that he believed that as a 'pureblood', he was more deserving of respect than a person of Muggle ancestry. Did he ever use his blood status as a reason to antagonize others?"

"Yes. A lot."

Nodding, Macmillan ceased his pacing. "Would you say that Draco Malfoy was a victim or a bully?"

"A bully."

Beside him, Draco heard Astoria give a low sigh of exasperation. Was she preparing her questions? He felt the slight irritation of unshared knowledge within him. Maybe he should say something…

"As his classmate, you came in contact with him often during his time under the Voldemort's orders?"

"Yes. I did afterwards, as well."

So he was going to say it.

He hadn't spent much time in the gardens of Malfoy Manor, and he now regretted ever feeling the urge to visit them at all. But the Manor itself had seemed filled with the smell of rotting bodies, filled with people who stared at him like he was prey and they were about to hunt him; like they were merely waiting for the orders to kill him. It wasn't his home anymore. The gardens had seemed so inviting...

"And what impression did you get as to his feelings towards his orders?"

If only there hadn't been a thin boy lurking there, ready to take advantage of his trust and immaturity and record in his mind the words Draco would so  _stupidly_  spit out...

Draco could feel Nott's eyes on him, like an oppressive weight he wished he could shake off. He kept his jaw clenched, his eyes on the table, but Nott's voice rang clear as if he had practiced the words his entire life.

"He was proud. He was nervous about failing, because he wanted so badly to be in the Dark Lord's favor and bring honor to his family again. He boasted to me, later, when I met him in 1997, that the Dark Lord had entrusted  _him_  with the difficult task of murdering Dumbledore, and he would have managed it had Snape not gotten in the way."

Draco thought that perhaps part of him had expected the room to rise in an uproar of shock, but what filled it instead was a tense, electrified silence. Astoria's fist had clenched and stayed that way, and his neck seemed incapable of moving to survey the room around him. The damage was done. Everything had frozen. Perhaps even Macmillan had not known that Nott was going to give out that particular piece of information, because he didn't hear even a whisper from the prosecutor. He could only hear and  _feel_  the deadly silence penetrating his bones as the Wizengamot slowly assimilated the words that referred to the death of a man who had been so dear to them. A death which had primarily been Draco's fault.

And then, the silence broke with the screech of a scraping chair as Astoria jumped to her feet. He watched as her hand left his field of vision, watched the hem of her robes fly as she moved forwards towards the Minister.

Macmillan was standing still, seemingly doubtful of what to do. His eyes flitted from Astoria to Draco to the Minister in quick succession, eyebrows slightly drawn together. It was only when Astoria reached Shacklebolt that he walked towards them briskly, his perfectly composed demeanor fading slightly to reveal a rising strain of puzzlement and apprehension.

Her voice was quick but hushed.

"Minister, there is no foundation for this accusation. It's not under the list-"

The Weasley brothers drew closer, their expressions just as taken aback as everyone else's. Only Shacklebolt seemed to have retained some semblance of calm consideration, his surprise dissipating quickly as he thought about the situation before him.

"I take it this is the first time you hear of this?"

His dark eyes met hers and she made an effort not to squirm under his probing gaze. "That's confidential, sir."

He gave one short nod, but Astoria knew he had seen right through her. Folding his hands, the Minister turned to Ernie. "Mr. Macmillan, do you have anything to say?"

The younger man hesitated for a brief second and then shook his head slightly, his expression still taken aback. "I… I must confess I had no idea the witness had this information."

"If it  _is_  information," Astoria bit out. "As it is, it's hearsay."

"It is  _not_  hearsay," Macmillan snapped. "A witness has responded to a question with new information that sheds new light onto the situation. It seems there is a new accusation to add to Malfoy's crimes."

"There is no evidence to support it! This is the first time we've heard of such a thing-"

"It's not our fault Malfoy didn't come clean with you, Greengrass."

For the first time, she looked at him with authentic fury. Bill Weasley raised a hand, his blue eyes wide and warning. "Please, let's remain calm. This is a surprising development, but we must make an objective decision."

Astoria breathed slowly to calm herself and then spoke again in a more subdued tone. "We have no further information on this than what Nott is telling us. It's very possible that he's drastically misunderstanding events; it can't be taken as hard fact."

"Accusations  _come from_  witnesses," said Macmillan. "The accusation deserves an investigation nonetheless."

"An investigation of what?" Astoria's fought to keep her voice a whisper as the silent room waited around them. "The crime never took place. Dumbledore died by Snape's hand."

The Minister of Magic shook his head. "Still," he said. "This trial is investigating Draco Malfoy's motivations. If he had the intention of murdering Albus Dumbledore, and if his attitude towards those orders was as the witness has testified, then it simply  _must_  be taken into account."

"Minister, with all due respect, we can't just  _add accusations_  in the middle of a trial. It's counterproductive on both sides."

"That is true," Percy Weasley remarked, speaking up for the first time, his owlish eyes almost unblinking as he spoke. "There's a reason for establishing the accusations beforehand; the barristers cannot carry out a decent defense or prosecution without having gathered substantial evidence."

Shacklebolt made a low sound of agreement as he listened to his Undersecretary. "What would be the proceedings then, Percy?"

Percy adjusted his spectacles rather nervously. "I'm afraid there isn't a precedent, Minister, at least not in recent times. We would have to consult with the Wizengamot Records-"

Shaking his head, Shacklebolt turned back to Astoria and Ernie, his eyes flitting briefly to where Draco sat a bit farther off, his head still bowed slightly over the table before him. "We can't prolong things much longer."

"Please, sir," Astoria put in with a bit more desperation than she intended to show. "Extend the trial to another day at the very least. Give me time to sort this out."

"There's nothing to sort out," Macmillan said, though there was no hostility in his voice. "There's a testimony that Malfoy himself confessed it; that in itself is enough for it to constitute as an accusation. Even your defense can't be enough to sugar-coat the facts."

"Mr. Macmillan." Shacklebolt's look was chiding, and Macmillan fell silent. Turning to Astoria, the Minister spoke gravely. "You are aware, Miss Greengrass, that by extending the trial you are not merely giving yourself time to prepare a careful defense, but also giving the prosecution time to collect substantial evidence that could potentially harm your client even more?"

She felt the grim blow of defeat, but gulped it down and nodded. She had no choice. "Yes, I'm aware of it."

He nodded, leaning back in his seat to look at them both. "Very well, then. I'll extend the trial, and in a week's time Mr. Macmillan will call the witness back for a cross-examination, and if he wants, he may also ask questions of his own. I trust you can conclude your statements by then. And Miss Greengrass," he turned to her rather sternly, though there was some humor in his eyes. "Make sure it pays off. You're not setting up a good track record for yourself."

They moved back to their places, avoiding each other's gazes. Ernie spoke some words to Nott before retreating to his seat, and Astoria sat down stiffly, her fists clenched over the rolls of parchment on her desk, not looking at Draco.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up, his hands clasped. He had spoken to the members of the council quickly, and had now turned towards the audience. "The Wizengamot has decided to extend the trial for one other installment, which shall take place a week from now, at ten o'clock. During this time, we trust that the prosecution and the defense shall make use of the new information revealed here today, and we will be prepared to give a verdict. Meanwhile," his gaze strayed to where the accused sat, barely moving. "It is decided that Draco Malfoy will remain under house arrest until the trial be concluded."

Silence faded and the room was filled with sounds as murmurs broke out among the crowd and the people prepared to leave. Nott left his bench, disappearing without a word, and Macmillan began to put his things away.

Astoria sat completely still, her hands folded in front of her, hands clutching each other tightly as she stared into nothingness.

Macmillan said something as he passed her, but she ignored him, lips pressed tightly together. As the courtroom emptied itself and most of the Wizengamot had left on their way to their offices or homes, Draco stirred beside her, his grey eyes straying to her face.

It was only when Macmillan had disappeared into the hallway outside that Astoria stood up, quickly filling her briefcase and shutting it with a snap.

"Greengrass-"

Draco looked up at her with an expression she couldn't identify.

"I don't want to hear a goddamn thing from you, Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth, and she turned and walked away.


	9. Chapter 9

He tossed his cloak onto the back of the couch, ignoring the House-Elf's feeble protests as it offered to take his things to the cloakroom. He felt uncomfortable. His hair hung too low over his forehead, his robes felt heavy on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt scratchy, his shoes constricting and sharp against his feet. His very skin seemed to crawl with strange, angry sensations.

Almost involuntarily, he reached up to run his nails over his arms, as if force could cleanse him of the acidic wave of anguish that had slowly begun to engulf him, threatening to pierce his heart.

By the fire, in her habitual seat, Narcissa sat looking towards the flames, the firelight giving a strange, unnatural glow to her cheeks.

Draco watched her for a moment, saying nothing, before his eyes strayed to the thin envelope that lay beside his mother's empty teacup.

"Tea, sir?" asked the Elf almost hopefully, from somewhere behind him.

He gave a gesture that was somewhere between a nod and a shrug, too tired to bother with finding something stronger. Reaching for the letter, his hand brushed his mother's accidentally. Her skin was cold, except for the fading warmth that the teacup had left imprinted on her palm. Her silver wedding ring flickered in the red light.

As he pulled the letter towards him he fought the urge to speak, to ask the questions that had plagued his mind so often. Did she miss him? Did she think about her husband, the man who had caused them to lose everything? Had she still been able to recognize his father in the meek, haggard creature that had surrendered its freedom to its master along with its wand?

He fell back into the couch, his legs stretched out before him, turning the letter over his hands. It was from Sally Coulson, again. He hadn't replied to her letter.

Glancing up at his mother again, he wondered if she had read the address, at the very least. She couldn't have read the contents; it remained sealed.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stop being ridiculous. It was idiotic to continue to imagine things. Ollie deposited his teacup and saucer on the low table beside him and he felt the humid breath of the steam as he read through the letter. There was no money left for their wages, no authority he could seek to solve the problem. The apothecaries were closed; they had been for almost a year now. But his father hadn't thought to inform anyone of the fluxweed situation, and meanwhile Mulpepper was stuffing his pockets with stolen money.

He seized the tea and drank it, accidentally sloshing it onto his hand, making him wince. The tea tasted bitter in his mouth, scalding and earthy. The thoughts mingled and he threw the teacup aside, ignoring the crash of smashing porcelain. The Elf would fix it.

"I'm under house arrest now, just like you," he drawled, crumpling the letter in his hand and letting it fall somewhere between the cushions as he folded his arms behind his head. "Not that you care."

Not that anyone did.

He mouthed curse words under his breath as he closed his eyes, watching Nott take a seat before the jury, his lungs filled with poisonous words. Words Draco himself had put there carelessly. He was an  _idiot_. And Astoria's hard glare shook him and he hated Nott and he hated her, but most of all, he hated himself. And still Narcissa sat there, expressionless, as if the fire did nothing to her nearly unblinking eyes, as if she sat alone and dead in a room. And he hated her as well.

Feeling acid churn in his stomach, he moved slightly and tried to find some comfort in the stiff cushions. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, and if he managed to forget the storm that raged inside him he could almost pretend he was the only one there, and maybe his mind could hide from him the echoing emptiness that resounded from the sparks that flew from the flaming logs.

He fell into a deep, fitful sleep, his arms twisted awkwardly behind his head, the collar of his shirt tightening around his neck. When he finally awoke, the fire had died down and only a few lonely sparks lit up the silent room. The crumpled letter lay somewhat straightened on the floor: perhaps Ollie had tried to mend the damage he had done to it. And still his mother sat, her eyes fixed on some distant point before her, unmovable.

With a grimace and a groan he sat up, slowly moving his neck to try to relieve some of the pain, but his arms tingled painfully and he was suddenly repulsed by the dead quietness of the room. Somehow, it reminded him of a tomb.

Stumbling slightly over the edge of the carpet, he felt the rancid taste of the tea still in his mouth and cursed for both reasons, leaving the room with a growl and making his way down the long, dark corridor that led to his room, a hand still trying to relieve some of the burning ache of his uncomfortable neck. The lights brightened around him as he walked, bringing life to the path ahead of him. He walked slowly, blinking to try and bring clarity to the sleepy blur of his eyes.

What time was it? Only a few hours after noon? Or sunset...? the heavy curtains that hung over the windows had swallowed the light so completely that he was unable to sense the time. And it felt like he had slept  _ages_.

He didn't mean to wander the halls. He didn't mean to make it easier for him; but then again, perhaps it had been his intention to be found.

Somehow, he took a wrong turn and ended up taking the longest way to his room from the sitting room. Somehow, his eyes strayed to the connecting passage that led to his father's study. Somehow, his sleepy mind let itself be swayed by curiosity, and before he knew it he was only a few steps before the looming door, watching the bright light from within that threw strange, moving shadows onto the stone floor.

"So you  _did_  come to find me. Good, I was worried I'd have to hunt you down."

Nott's mocking, kindly tone was unmasked by the grimace of disgust that disfigured his features. He was still wearing the same clothes from the trial, but his hair was slightly disheveled, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. Almost like a tear. He had just come out of Lucius' study, starting slightly at the sight of him but quickly recovering, leaning against the frame of the door almost casually.

There was an unsettling contrast between his calm, collected actions and the distorted ferocity in his expression.

It took Draco a millisecond to register what was happening, but Nott had hardly finished speaking when he pulled his wand out of his pocket and threw himself towards the other wizard, knocking him into the room and against the wall. Waves of rage crashed over him and he felt his hand close around Nott's neck, his nails digging into the man's flesh in horrible, delicious cruelty. He wanted blood. He wanted to see Nott broken on the floor, crying, begging for mercy as Draco took his revenge and stole back from him every bit of the sanity Nott himself had taken.

His wand was shaking violently and Nott was spluttering, choking in his grasp, his hands trying to push him away, lashing out at his face, throwing blows his way. But Draco felt nothing; only the scalding burn of fury as he tightened his grip, watching his adversary's skin turn red from the pressure.

But the words wouldn't come. The wand was pointed at its target; Nott was cornered. But the words wouldn't come.

Again he could hear Aunt Bellatrix and her distant cackling, feel the harsh corners and the sharp curves of the word she so loved to use...

The rasping sound of Nott's voice brought him back to reality, the haze of anger dispersing slightly to give way to understanding.

"Too... scared... to use... your wand...?"

He wanted to fight, to curse him until there was no more blood left in that wretched, disgusting body of his, no more life for him to use against him. But the words wouldn't come, and his hand was shaking, his fist clenched and unclenched almost beyond his control.

With a yell, Draco pulled Nott forwards and slammed him against the wall again, again, again, hearing his skull crash against the stone, using his weight to break... if only to make him disappear... he could hear the words spoken at the trial, feel the cruel jeers, the knowledge that everyone knew just how fucked up he really was and were ready to take advantage of it...

But he wasn't fast enough. Nott writhed in his grip and managed to pull his wand out, and unlike Draco, the words came to him quite quickly. In a split second Draco was on the floor, blinded by a bright flash of light, hot blood dripping down his temple. He managed to dodge the second blast, ignoring the stabbing pain in his scalp and throwing himself sideways on the stone. The room and its bright white lights seemed to spin as Nott jumped towards him, one hand trying to rub the life back into his neck, the other motioning for what Draco knew would be painful...

He barely held back a yell of pain as a curse hit him in the leg this time, making him feel like his flesh had caught fire. But his wand was merely a stick in his hand, the magic absent, a heavy barrier between his mind and the curses, hexes and spells he had spent his entire life learning. The growl that escaped him was almost more frustration than it was pain, and he somehow managed to jump up to his feet despite the burning sensation and push Nott's thin frame back violently, against the corner of his father's desk.

The blast hit him in the chest this time and he was thrown five feet backwards, narrowly avoiding crashing into the corner of the doorframe; the same door he had watched his parents speaking from all those years ago. He could feel his limbs frozen though the pain persisted, and with gritted teeth watched Nott walk towards him, staggering slightly, his grimace darkened with pain and hatred.

"You useless little fucker," he rasped, and again he slashed his wand over Draco with a shower of scalding sparks that succeeded in making him yell with agony. "Can't even use your wand. Nothing but a Squib now; shame, what the Malfoy  _legacy_ has come to." He spat, and Draco felt the warm, slimy beads of saliva and phlegm slide down his wrist.

With a shaking arm he tossed his wand to a side, away from Draco's grasp, and leaned over him, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with tears of pain. The spell had Draco's body trapped and he couldn't do much more than blink as Nott punched him hard in the jaw. The force left his head reeling and he felt the pain spread slowly like burning hot water.

"You think you can stop me from doing whatever I want to do?" Nott breathed in his ear through gritted teeth, his breath hot and spittle-ridden. "This," he said, as Draco struggled fruitlessly in the grip of his spell, his face red and blotchy, blood and dust matted in his hair. Nott gestured around him, his face livid. " _This;_  this is  _all mine._ And when you're rotting in a cell with your ruin of a father, you'll know that  _all of this is mine_ , and there's nothing you can do to keep me away from what's mine."

Draco spat blood out of his mouth, turning his eyes to Nott's. "You won't take my life away from me; I'm not afraid of you. They'll all find out what you really are."

Nott snorted, his expression losing some of its fury and replacing it with jeering satisfaction. "Don't assume things, Malfoy. You always thought you were so much better than all the rest of us, didn't you? Gold isn't everything. I hope you've realized that now."

He straightened up, kicking Draco's shin as he stepped backwards. Draco winced as the pain reverbrated through his body, triggering pain in all the other parts of his body. He gestured towards the opposite side of the room.

"See that?" he asked, and when he realized Draco couldn't move his face to a side, he stepped forwards and nudged his head with his shoe, pushing his cheek against the cold floor that was wet with blood.

Lucius Malfoy's heavy desk had been moved to a side, what few old, cracked inkwells and shriveled quills that had once covered it thrown haphazardly over its surface. Most of the books and artifacts that had once decorated the shelves and walls of the study were not there anymore: Draco had had them sold, and the room looked oddly barren and empty without them, as if it had been robbed of the glamorous elegance it once had.

And there was the tapestry, its serpents contorted in odd shapes as the cloth lay in a crumpled heap on the grown, held up only by a hook that clung fiercely to the wall and pulled up part of the dusty family emblem. The serpents stared at Draco with blind, shriveled eyes, their emeralds torn off, and as Draco's gaze strayed downwards he caught sight of  _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ lying among the creases in the cloth, misshapen and withered, turned into little more than a shrunken scribble.

But it was below, on the floor, only half a foot away from the tapestry, that the stone wall had been opened and a gaping hole glared at him, and even from where he lay paralyzed on the floor he could make out the thin shapes of objects stored deeply within.

His mind, riding wildly on adrenaline, quickly understood.

"You're hiding evidence here."

Nott's sweating face seemed to swell over his thin frame with mocking satisfaction. "No," he said, pronouncing the word almost carefully. "I don't  _have_  evidence. I don't even have a bloody Mark." He kicked again, this time at Draco's left arm. His hard shoe knocked painfully against Draco's wrist. "Unlike you idiots, who got evidence burnt into you like a fucking tattoo." He snorted. "No... this is just a little gift from what's left of the Nott family. You know the Weasleys are all up in arms nowadays about Dark Artifacts hidden in people's houses. And it's a win-win situation for me, you see." He shrugged, his eyes glittering with derision. "If you don't tell, and they just  _happen_  to come inspect old Lucius' study, then you get sent to Azkaban for being a Death Eater  _and_  posession of Dark Artifacts. And if you tell... well, then they'll think you're trying to attack a witness, which only means they'll pay even more attention to what I've said. I did wonder if you ever told that pretty girl of yours about Dumbledore."

He suddenly swooped down upon Draco, the sharp point of his wand digging into Draco's neck. "You can't hide things anymore, Malfoy. Go die in Azkaban and give the world a rest from your pathetic, miserable existence."

He pushed his weight off from Draco's neck with his wand, causing a agonized croak to escape from his victim's throat, and with three more spells, the hole in the wall was hidden. Draco could do nothing but yell, already hoarse, already feeling his throat raw from the effort, as Nott left the room, leaving no evidence behind him but Draco, immobilized against the cold floor, in pitch darkness.

...

He yelled.

He hit his head against the stone ground more times than he could count.

He watched the strange shadows of the night rise and fall oddly, not knowing what moved or what changed or where it came from.

He struggled in vain against his invisible bonds, watching welts and blisters form on his skin as he fought them.

He watched the blood trickle down from his wounds and tasted its metallic taste, and choked on it once or twice.

He fought the urge to vomit when the taste became too much.

He yelled. He yelled more.

But Lucius Malfoy's study was far from the sitting room or the kitchens, designed precisely to keep sound out, and therefore keep sound in as well. And the lights of the room would no longer turn on; Nott must have done something to them.

He coughed when his throat became incapable of letting sound escape, and he stupidly, pathetically, cried.

He slept and had dreams of the tapestry serpents slowly chewing their way through his body. He had had nightmares like those, when he was a child. He woke up and cried more, and hated himself for behaving so childishly.

After what felt like an eternity, his bones aching, every part of his body groaning with pain, he fell asleep once more.

...

When he awoke he wasn't sure if he had slept or blacked out, but he felt the keen pain of his head hitting the stone floor again. The curse had faded and he was free.

He grimaced and felt the caked blood, dirt and tears crack against his skin, and he wondered how long he had been there. The lights were still off; maybe they had been destroyed. Draco tried to turn his body, and after much effort, he as able to bring his legs up towards his stomach and examine his wounds with slow, sluggish movements. His head was pounding, but his hands were shaking with more than pain. The bright anger he had felt before had subsided, but he was shaken, and he could feel the slow rise of the wave within him that threatened to plunge him into darkness.

It felt like hours, but finally he was able to rise to his feet. What time was it? He couldn't tell. The halls were just as dark as before, but so was the rest of the house. He stumbled out of the study, his feet skidding on the wetness of the floor and he found himself in the old bathroom of that section of Malfoy Manor, staring at his twisted, cracked reflection on the mirror, his wide grey eyes staring at him with a strangeness he couldn't recognize.

That crouching, pained, frightened thing, bloody and tear-stained, couldn't be Draco Malfoy.  _What would Father say?_

The blinking lights of the bathroom were surreal; he watched himself disappear into the darkness and reappear a hundred times in a matter of seconds. He watched himself raise his hands to his arms and drag his fingernails down, he watched himself fall, and then he couldn't watch himself anymore because he was facing the sink, his body curled up on the ground, gasping for air that he didn't really want, loathing, loathing, loathing...

He wasn't sure what he hated or why he shook as if he were frightened, but when he closed his eyes he could see red... he could see  _his_  eyes staring back, feel  _his_ clammy hand on his face...  _You'll do this so Daddy can live, won't you? You'll do better than your idiotic, incompetent Father._

And Aunt Bellatrix laughs, always laughs.

He's screaming but he doesn't know why. His heart seems to shake inside him; how much more can it take? How much more? Green flashes, everywhere, the skeletal masks turning against him and he crawls over the rubble of what used to be his school, his home, as his father's friend rises his arm to murder him...

The lights overhead stopped blinking, but his eyes were shut tightly, and he feelt the shattering of the chandelier again, feelt the overwhelming defeat, the pain of the tiny particles slitting their way through his cheeks, heard Mother sobbing, screaming...

His hand strayed to his forearm and he could feel the bruises. He bit his lip to avoid another yell; his throat hurt to much. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes to look at the bathroom from where he lay on the ground, again. How many times had he lied on the ground lately? His grandfather, some nights, when old and drunk after a long party, used to talk about all the Malfoys that had died in these halls:  _One day you'll find me here too, buried in the Manor with the gold that brought glory to our name and purity to our line._ There were old glass bottles, cracked into sharp shards in the corner, just near his head. He watched a pair of spiders run through the neck of one of them and his mind seemed to drift ahead of him. His thoughts weren't coherent; his memories were a strange blurr of voices and feelings.

Looking down, Draco's vision focused on his arms, pale against the dark floor. At first he thought it was blood that drew lines down his arms; then he realized it was only the redness his fingernails had left on his skin. The color faded once more even as he watched. His eyes trailed down until he found the clutter of bruises on his forearm that only served to mark in angry, bright colors, the blackened burn of the skull and the snake that marked him a monster.

_It is an honor_ , said Mother, her eyes wide as she looked away, face white as a sheet. Her voice shook with emotions that contradicted her words. In the dark of the night, years before Draco even understood what the brand  _really_  meant, he had awoken at midnight to the sound of Father's shout of agony; the murmurs exchanged by his parents had been too obscure for him to understand... but when Rosier, McNair and Nott Sr. had begun to visit his study, their voices hushed and drawn, he had slowly become aware that the stories Father had spoken of were more than just a distant past meant to make him behave.

The more he looked at the skull, the more the lights overhead seemed to turn the skull's empty sockets into the same slanted, red, cruel eyes that had fuelled his nightmares...

Biting back a strangled yell, he seized his forearm and irrationally tried to rub off the dark stain from his skin. He rubbed until his skin was red, his nails turning his flesh raw, tears escaping through his narrowed eyes; he felt them leave a hot trail down his cheeks. The liquid seemed to make the invisible scars burn.

_Crawl back to your rotting cave in Wiltshire, and enjoy it while you can. 'Cause there's nothing you can say or do that's going to make anyone forget what you are or what you done._

He scraped his skin against the corner of the stone basin, half-sitting against it. The lights felt like they were still blinking, but he was vaguely aware that it was only his eyes. The spiders inside the bottles scuttled away frantically as he seized a shard of glass, his eyes still fixed on the slithering serpent that seemed to hiss at him from his skin, the red eyes behind it glittering hatefully.  _Kill him, Draco_.

He felt that the skull smiled as he slit it in two, the snake trying to writhe away from harm but failing miserably. He felt a ghost of joy pass through him and watched detachedly as blood welled up from the wound, streaming down his skin onto the floor.

_What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?_

_I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_ his mind chanted, digging into his skin with the red-soaked glass. And the skull was Nott, Nott who was using him, playing with him, as if he hadn't already had enough...

_Don't pick a side._  Eight-year-old Draco cowered in a corner, aghast at the spreading pool of blood.

_Never pick a side._

_I hate you. I hate you. I hate you._

_Mother!_  The young boy cried out, rushing towards the three steps that led down into the hall. His feet tripped, and he landed pathetically on the floor, his knee bruised and his chin scraped, leaving droplets of blood on the alabaster floor.

The red pool swelled on the bathroom floor. The child called out to his mother, voice strangled with tears of pain.

And from the swirl of thoughts, the old, weakened wizard with the half-moon spectacles watched him calmly.

_We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course._

And he could hear his voice, pitiful and shaking, as the words tumbled out of his mouth like vomit... words he regretted later, words that had no explanation other than the fact that there had been  _no one_ ,  _no one_  who could listen... who could know... and somehow the bearded man had in some strange, twisted way, understood...

_Come over to the right side, Draco... you are not a killer..._

But he was dead. Dead. And the red eyes laughed, laughed, laughed, and he couldn't quiet them, nothing could quiet them but the pool kept spreading, reaching his knees and staining them with red warmth...

_It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now._

The child raised his head and screamed.

"Mother."

The word escaped hoarsely from his lips, and almost oblivious to the numbing pain of his arm, the shard of glass fell from his fingers, splintering again as it hit the floor. But he was out the door, tumbling into the corridor, running blindly, feeling his strength ebb away while a strange fury rose up in him again... a fury that was mixed with an urgent, irrepressible need...

"Mother."

She didn't move as he stumbled into the sitting room, didn't even glance at the blood that was streaming from his forearm, where the angry red wound had split the Dark Mark in half. But even in the flesh that lay in midst of the blood, Draco could see the blackness of the Mark staining his very core.

"Mother," he said, and his voice was not his own. His voice was the child's. "Mother... fix it."

Narcissa kept her eyes on the fire. He watched the flames through her pupils and it seemed to him that she was empty; glass that was of no use now, but a mirror. And he felt panic surge inside him.

Dropping to his knees, he reached out for her hand, feeling her cold, inert fingers as he clutched them. "Mother, please. I'm hurt. I didn't mean to... Please."

Her eyes didn't even flicker with understanding.

His words were like sobs now. He could feel the warmth of his tears mingling with the blood as they dripped onto his skin. "Mother, please! I don't know the spell."

When he was eight, he had been on the floor for little more than five seconds before she had come rushing in, her blonde hair a white halo around her head, eyes bright with tears of worry. She had lifted him onto her lap and kissed his forehead, waving her wand so gracefully he had hardly noticed when the pain was gone, and his tears were only from the frightening surprise of his fall. She had comforted him, spoken soft words to him, and then held his hand as they walked back towards the sitting room for a nice mug of hot chocolate...

He had never learned the spell. She had always been there.

Fury exploded within him and his arm crashed against the things on the table before her, spilling its contents onto the floor with a deafening crash. He threw the teapot onto the ground, ignoring the dark liquid's splashes onto the already stained carpet, let the napkins topple into the hearth and catch fire with a bright blaze that seemed to light his mother's eyes up even more, revealing how empty, how hollow they were...

"MOTHER LISTEN TO ME!" he roared, and clutched her hand so tightly now he was sure he must be hurting her, though she gave no sign of realizing it. He dropped her hand as if he had been burned, though her skin was so cold it made him think involuntarily of a corpse. "SAY SOMETHING!"

Nothing.

He gave a yell, and his head was swimming. The red blood from his wrist seemed to have stained his very vision. He couldn't see clearly. "Mother," he rasped from where he knelt on the floor. "Please. Fix it. Say something. I can't..." He took a breath, and the words tumbled out of his mouth, almost in the same manner they had with Dumbledore. "I've done so much... I've tried... I... I can't...

"Mother," he wept, and she sat immobile as a statue, a lifeless glass sculpture. The teacups lying cracked on the carpet reminded him. "The china," he murmured. "I sold the china."

She had been so proud of it.  _Mother gave her prized china to me,_ she had said with a proud smile as they had sipped tea, so many times, so many years ago.  _I was the youngest, but Bellatrix was too impetuous for a lady's life, and Andromeda was too unworthy. So Mother gave the china to_ me.

And he had sold it, sold it in order to get Howard Perkins to defend her in the trials and attempt to win his mother freedom... a freedom he wasn't sure any of them deserved.

But she no longer cared about the china. She cared about nothing.

"Mother, I can't."

_We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course._

The words made him sick, he wanted to vomit. He wanted to forget. He could feel himself weakening, felt as his body lost its strength and as he hit the ground heavily, cushioned by the blood-soaked carpet, his vision darkening. Draco felt his lips move to murmur, "I don't know the spell."

Would the sculpture come to life as he died alone on the ground? Would it deign to look at the man she once called her child?

_It's all right, Draco,_  she had murmured as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, the scrape on his chin now healed.  _It's all right, my love_.

_Say something_ , he murmured in his mind once more, and then his mind plunged into darkness.

. . .

He opened his eyes slowly.

His body hurt. The world focused slowly around him.

He caught sight of the high roof of the sitting room, but it was bathed in morning light, the old dusty hooks from where chandeliers had once hung looking lonely and forlorn, exposed to the world.

He barely had the strength to turn his head and look beside him. And he had no strength to be surprised at the sight of the woman who sat quietly on the carpet, her legs curled beneath her, settling a teacup on the ground beside her, her face revealing some discomfort.

She didn't look at him as she leaned back against the couch behind them.

"Your House-Elf makes rubbish tea," said Astoria.


	10. Chapter 10

He blinked slowly and watched as she conjured a glass of water and drank from it, still looking slightly miffed at the tea.

"Honestly, I have no idea how you can live with an Elf that makes tea like that," she added, still not looking at him.

It must be morning. Though that still didn't explain why she was sitting comfortably on the carpet, her dark green robes looking a bit more casual than the clothes he had seen her in before, leaning her head nonchalantly against the armrest of the sofa behind her.

As he shifted his head slightly to take a better, albeit slow, look at his surroundings, he felt the base of the sofa against the top of his head. He was only lying about half a foot away from Astoria and he felt strangely out of place lying sluggishly on the floor beside his barrister, who shouldn't even be there in the first place.

"It's not the same one," he said, his voice sounding raspy and slow.

If she noticed the rawness of his throat she ignored it, frowning slightly as she set the glass down beside her, her eyes still fixed on some distant point ahead. "What?"

Taking a breath seemed to require great effort. He forced the words out. "I said it's not the same one. The House-Elf. Not the one I grew up with." He took another deep breath and it felt like his lungs were being pulled violently apart. "It's only been here for a year or so."

"Oh, well, that explains it," she answered.

Too tired to look anywhere else, he examined the dark lines under her eyes, which seemed to have deepened even more as of late. She looked very much like a person who has woken up too early after not sleeping enough, though her clothing and the always impeccable waves of her hair spoke of someone who was orderly and well put together. Beyond her, he saw dark shoes on the floor, which  _had_  to belong to her. Was she barefoot? The whole situation was unsettling, but he had no energy to try and make sense of it.

He took another deep, painful breath and gathered the energy to push himself up, moving his arms upwards to hold his weight.

Agonizing pain shot through his arm and he let out a gasp of anguish as he fell heavily onto the ground again, knocking his head against the hard wood of the base of the furniture behind him. He cursed in a strained voice.

"Yeah, it's best you stay still," Astoria said sedately, turning to look at him for the first time. "You lost a lot of blood."

Breathing deeply to try and help the pain fade, he was able to glance around him and noticed the striking absence of blood and dirt on the carpet. He was vaguely aware that it should be absolutely covered with grime and the large quantities of blood with which he dimly remembered soaking the carpet.

His eyes moved to Astoria once more and he looked at her in silence, feeling slightly unsettled.

She merely stared back calmly.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asked, his words sounding slow and slurred. "I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow."

"Your mother's trial is tomorrow," Astoria said. "I need to speak to her before that."

His mother's glassy eyes as she ignored his pleads for help, the heart-shattering pain of knowing that she truly wouldn't even care if he died right in front of her... Draco banished the thought from his mind, forcing himself to take on the relaxed, careless attitude he had held regarding her silence.  _It's certainly more pleasant than her constant nagging_.

"Yeah, good luck with that."

The words still sounded wrong, even fake, as they left his mouth.

Astoria didn't say anything in reply to his sarcasm. He felt uneasy under her sharp stare and shifted.

"What time is it?"

"Eight a.m."

Surprise dismissed his discomfort and he shot her an odd look. "That's awfully early for a business call."

Astoria looked uncomfortable and averted her gaze, nudging her bare foot into the carpet. Hesitating, she glanced at him quickly before speaking. "I... to be honest, I came for something else." She took a breath and paused before continuing. "I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved at the trial yesterday. It wasn't right, and it wasn't professional. I'm sorry."

Draco just stared at her. An odd silence fell over the room, and she held her hands folded in her lap almost awkwardly, still looking at that point ahead of her. He was overcome with a strange feeling he couldn't quite identify, and he wasn't really sure what to say in reply to her apology. He knew, after all, that she was probably quite justified in her actions and in the way she had spoken to him the day before.

An eternity seemed to pass before he broke the silence.

"Well, it could have waited until evening."

Maybe she recognized the hidden humor in his words, because she didn't look offended though she shot him a glare. Her lips had curved into a small smile that dissolved almost as quickly as it had appeared. "You're lucky I came when I did," she said quietly.

He looked away.

"Your House-Elf was going mad when I arrived," Astoria continued in the same quiet tone that wasn't as businesslike as the one she had used with him before. Her voice sounded surprisingly gentle all of a sudden, deprived of the sharp, professional ring that had characterized it during their previous interactions. He was suddenly seized with the realization that she was only eighteen years old; she had only just left Hogwarts. Glancing at her, there was suddenly something almost anxious in the way she held her hands, a rather overwhelmed look in her eyes as she spoke. "It didn't know what to do. Apparently the Manor Rules state that an Elf can't use its magic on its Master." She shot him a look. "I suggest you change that. If I hadn't arrived when I did, you would be dead by now."

Draco said nothing.

"Your mother was in bed-"

She must have noticed the startled confusion that blanched in his face abruptly, because she paused. Draco hadn't been able to control his expression. How long had he been lying unconscious on the carpet before Astoria arrived? Narcissa must left as soon as he had blacked out... she must have walked out of the room, without so much as a blink towards her only son who lay dying on the floor at her back...

Astoria couldn't possibly have read the explanation in his eyes, and he couldn't understand the expression that passed over her face. He didn't say anything, and she continued.

"The Elf led me here and thankfully I was able to fix you up and clear the mess."

She was still staring at him with that look that wasn't quite reprimanding, but that somehow made him want to explain himself.

"It was an accident," he stated. The words seemed like a ridiculous lie, and he hesitated, grappling for the correct words. "I mean- I didn't..." he sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "I didn't mean it. I didn't know the spell to heal it."

"You're lucky I did," she murmured. "As it was, I almost took you to St. Mungo's. I thought..." she pressed her lips shut and her jaw tightened before she spoke again, turning to him with a less grim expression. "I still did a pretty terrible job of it. It scarred horribly. I might have been able to find dittany to make it better, but given the circumstances..."

_Given the circumstances I thought you might prefer it this way._  The words hung unsaid between them. He sighed and with some pained effort managed to lift his arm up so he could inspect the damage. The movement made his flesh throbb painfully but he ignored it, forcing himself to focus on the skull and the snake, now inert and colorless, no red eyes or writhing serpent, no words, no noise, nothing... only an ugly tattoo burned onto his forearm that was now parted in half by a long, jagged white line.

Somewhere in his mind, a strange, bitter child within him found humor in the irony of his having such a prominent scar.

He stared at it for a while, trying to find the right thing to say. The obvious ones were there, but they sounded so foreign in his mind that he couldn't even begin to translate them to his lips. Instead, he calmly traced the white line and wondered if it had somehow become something of a statement.

When she spoke quietly, it simultaneously felt like she did so from miles away and as if her voice was sounding in his own head.

"It doesn't mean anything, you know. Not anymore."

He whipped his head sideways and looked at her in a sort of furious astonishment. " _What_?"

She wasn't leaning against the couch anymore. She had drawn her legs up to her chest and was staring at him slightly sidways as she leaned her head on her knees.

"It doesn't mean anything," she stated. "The Dark Mark."

"Don't be stupid," he said, with more vehemence than he had intended to use. "Of course it does. It means more now than it ever did; it's a bloody mark on my bloody  _flesh-_ "

"He can't control you anymore, Draco. It's just a drawing now."

"I'm a fucking  _Death Eater_ , Greengrass."

"Death Eaters don't exist anymore."

The firmness with which she spoke shocked him into silence. He stared at her in confused disbelief, and she didn't even seem shaken by the agression in his words. Her blue eyes gazed at him, wide and calm, as he struggled to find words with which to answer.

"The War's over," she continued in the same quiet, firm tone. "People everywhere have scars from it, whether it's from fighting in the Order of the Phoenix, or for the Death Eaters, or just running for their lives... Everyone did horrible things in the War, and if they're lucky they can just hide it all under a pile of victories, but they'll always remember."

Her fingers were tracing the carpet beneath them and her tone was almost furious, as if she had been holding back from giving this speech for a very long time. They surged from her in a belligerent but quiet stream.

"The truth of this trial, of all of it..." She sighed with frustration. "The Wizengamot can examine your intentions all it wants, but none if it is going to erase what you did, or what anyone did. It all happened, and if anyone wants to get through their lives in peace then they just have to accept that hating ourselves for what we did and hating others for the things they did to us is not going to help anyone. The very  _nature_  of being human means our perception of life is limited and we're going to make infinite mistakes. And that's  _fine_." Her back straightened, and she looked at him directly now. "Screw history, screw titles and Dark Marks... nobody who lives after us will understand what the War was really like, and nobody who didn't live through what you lived is going to understand what  _that_ was like. And we can try to justify you for the trial, and embellish points, and try to make a diagram explaining your motivations and who you are... but the trial is  _nothing_ , Draco. It's nothing if you can't live with yourself once it's done.

"Voldemort is dead. The Death Eaters are dead. What's printed on your skin has no more meaning than blood status or Death Eater ranks do nowadays. It's all gone. It doesn't matter what people think; they're not the ones that have to look at it every day. What matters is the meaning you give it, and if you don't give it any, then it's nothing."

He stared at her without saying anything as she fell silent, digging her fingers into the carpet. He wanted to sit up. Desperately, he forced his body to conjure up the strength to lift itself.

As it was, he almost fell over, and his eyes were tightly shut with anguish as pain shot through his arm and the bruises Nott had left on him. Astoria's legs dropped from her chest and she moved forwards to stop him from falling as he finally set his back against the sofa, grunting with pain.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at his face with some concern, the insistence of her previous words gone. "Something happened to your nose."

Without meaning to, he sniffed, almost having forgotten the violent punch Dennis Creevey had aimed at it that time at the Ministry. It still stung sometimes, but he had hardly noticed it.

"And you have bruises on your neck."

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to sit up, after all.

Astoria was looking at him with alarm, one hand still on his shoulder, steadying him. "What's been happening to you, Draco? You couldn't possibly have done  _that_  to yourself."

"You underestimate me and my self-mutilating talents," he drawled sarcastically.

She ignored him, raising an eyebrow in expectance.

Draco ground his teeth together and gave her a biting smile. "In the end it's not your intentions that people remember. It's what you actually  _did_."

"Who did this to you?"

He leaned back against the sofa, ignoring her vexation. His body hurt too much. "Does it matter at this point?" he remarked bitterly.

"Of course it does! The Ministry won't-"

"The Ministry doesn't  _matter_ , Astoria," he snapped, his eyes closed. "You said it yourself. They can do trials and whatever the hell they want but it doesn't make people forget. People aren't going to just  _realize_  that hating me isn't helping them. In their eyes, I'm alive while the people they loved are dead, and that doesn't seem very fair to them. And it isn't, is it?" He opened his eyes and turned to look at her, eyes burning. "I  _should_  be dead."

"Nobody should be dead."

He snorted. "I told you you were naïve. What's the point of a trial, anyway? What's the point of being free, of  _forgiving myself_  or any of that, when every single person in the Wizarding World wants me dead?" And he couldn't help it; he couldn't help the faint wetness of tears rising in his eyes, though it might be slight enough for her not to see them. "What's the bloody  _point_? I don't want to live like this.

"I don't want to win the case."

The confession escaped almost without him noticing it, but he didn't really care. He was, after all, in a highly unusual situation and after the night he had had he didn't really give a damn about what happened anymore.

"Is that why you're hiding things from me?"

He shrugged, though the movement caused him more pain and he grimaced. "I don't even know," he said tiredly. "All I know is that by the looks of it, I'm better off in Azkaban than I am in my own house."

"So you'd rather just lose... give up, spend twenty years locked up in a cell before you come back to the real world?"

"It's probably still not enough for people to forget. Lifetime imprisonment might be better."

"There's no way they'll lock you up for life; they'd have no excuse for that, even if they all hated you. And you're being ridiculous," she added. "You're running away. You still have a house, a mother-"

He laughed mirthlessly, his eyes still closed, his head thrown back onto the couch. "Oh yes, my wonderful,  _caring_  mother. She's probably better off in Azkaban too." He let out a sigh of frustration and opened his eyes, turning to her again. "But I don't  _know_ , Greengrass, okay? I don't know anything. Nothing seems like a good enough option right now. Honestly, it would be simpler for everyone if the Malfoy name just disappeared, I think. What kind of a life could I build from here? It doesn't seem like it's worth it."

She let go of his arm and turned her back to the couch once more, bringing her legs up to her chest again. Her expression was calm; she didn't look quite as chagrined about what he had said as he expected her to. Instead, her eyebrows were drawn together slightly, still mulling over what he had said.

Again, he felt oddly out of place, as if there were words he should be saying that he wasn't.

When he did speak, however, they weren't the words he expected.

"Were you in the battle?"

Astoria snapped out of her reverie. "What?"

"The battle. Of Hogwarts. At the end." The sentance was disconnected, but she understood what he meant.

A strange expression came over her face. "No," she said after a moment. "I wasn't. I got Mumblemumps halfway through the year, just before the Carrows started getting brave enough to torture students... then Mother wouldn't let me go back to school. I don't even know if that was the reason she wouldn't." She hesitated before continuing. "The truth is... I don't know what I wish would have happened. I think I'd  _like_  to think that I would have stayed to fight... but..."

She didn't have to explain it to him. He knew what she meant. During the War nobody knew who was on what side, even among the purebloods, and the idea of facing your family or your friends in battle was not one that appealed to anyone.  _Never pick a side_  was not a phrase that only Lucius Malfoy used. Especially when it came to a battle like the one at Hogwarts, which had seemed doomed to Death Eater victory.

"It's funny how simple it all seems now," Astoria murmured. "It's obvious now, what was the right choice to make. But in the moment it was so confusing."

She looked so frail, curled up where she sat, her eyes wide, her pale skin accenting the dark lines from lack of sleep. Draco curled his fingers into the carpet just as she had done before and tried to shake the feeling that he should say something to comfort her. But what could he say? What could anyone say?

The War was over.

They had done what they had done, and there was no taking it back.

"Why did you become a barrister?" he asked.

Astoria reached to her side and finished the water in the glass before she spoke. "I'm not really sure," she said wryly. "I don't think it was for some altruistic motive. My father always wanted me to take over the company for him."

"Wouldn't Daphne be the first choice?"

She grinned all of a sudden. "Have you  _met_  Daphne?"

He smirked. "Fair enough."

"As soon as I got my OWLS, Father began to put together plans of me working for him." She shrugged. "I suppose it might have been some sort of rebellious streak in me, but I don't think that was all it was. I can't work in manufacturing textiles." Astoria frowned. "And it's not like Father doesn't have associates that could do a much better job than I ever will. He has people who actually  _enjoy_ it. But no, a Greengrass must manage it. And I understand, I really do... but I simply can't see myself working in that field."

He eyed her quizzicaly. "So you went into Magical Law, because  _that's_  much more enjoyable?"

Astoria looked amused at his sarcasm. "Yeah," she said, drawing out the word. "I know it doesn't make much sense. But I  _do_  genuinely enjoy it. Especially when I believe in the cause I'm defending. And somehow, my family simply can't understand that. I spent the past three years arguing with my parents about it. I've been told so many times that I'll never be able to make it on my own;  _pureblood daughters simply weren't meant for a solitary_ flat _life, darling._ " She wrinkled her nose with disgust. "In the end, Father seems to have accepted it, though he still seems disappointed every time we meet. But  _Mother_..." she sighed, and then suddenly seemed to realize to whom she was speaking. With a start, she rearranged her expression, looking rather apologetic. "I'm sorry. I- I didn't mean to go on a rant like that."

"No," he answered quickly. "It's fine. I-"

Maybe he wanted to say  _I understand_? He wasn't entirely sure, so he fell silent. But  _he still seems disappointed every time we meet_  seemed to ring in his head.

They fell into silence. Draco finally looked around properly. The logs in the fire had crumbled into grey ashes, no longer holding any flame or warmth. The curtains of the windows had been pulled open entirely, exposing the dirty glass that was still wet from the chill of the morning dew. He wondered if the open curtains were her doing; they brought an odd sort of life back into the room, though he could now see the clumps of dust where the furniture that was no longer there used to sit.

The effect was oddly soothing. For some reason it was more comforting to see the empty spaces than to keep them lurking in the shadows.

Then Astoria broke the silence suddenly, turning to him with eyes that were only barely glistening.

"I need to win this case, Draco."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his right hand.

Astoria was looking at him with earnest intensity, leaning over the space between them until he couldn't avoid looking at her.

"Which one?" he asked, almost involuntarily.

"Whichever."

"Win my mother's then."

She let out a short laugh of disbelief. "This isn't a  _negotiation_ , Malfoy," she exclaimed. "Merlin knows if I can win both, I will. But I need you to actually help me."

He threw his head back on the couch and rubbed his eyes again, maybe merely as an excuse to keep them closed. "What does that even mean?" he snapped. "I  _have_  helped. You've asked, I've answered. I'm sorry about the Dumbledore thing. I... I don't know. Whatever." He mentally chided himself for being so pathetic. "But what exactly do you want?"

When he opened his eyes, she was the same woman he had seen before, in the trials and in their interviews. Her gaze was piercing. "Help me win your mother's case. Come with me and help me interrogate her; maybe that'll help somehow. Tell me everything you might percieve could be useful. And  _stop hiding things from me_."

Draco sneered. "Mother doesn't  _care_ , Greengrass. It doesn't matter if it's you, me or the damn House-Elf. She's not talking."

Maybe she caught the bitterness in his tone, because her eyes slid down to his arm before snapping back to his face.

"It's worth a try anyway."

"You're desperate."

"Of course I am," she hissed. "Maybe you don't care about what happens to you, but I've invested way too much in these cases to see them crash because you're not sure of what you want in life."

They held each others' gaze for a long moment, his grey against her blue. He wondered if his eyes looked as tired as hers did; they certainly couldn't look as fierce as hers did.

"Fine," he muttered finally.

Astoria seemed to sigh and fell back into the position she had been in before. She didn't look as relieved as he had, subconsciously, hoped she would. Instead, she eyed him with something akin to reproach. The barrister thawed slightly and gave way to the young woman.

"You can't hide their name forever, Draco."

She was looking at his neck and arms. He couldn't bring himself to be angry at her.

"I won't pick sides," he replied wearily, but with finality, his father's words still echoing in his head.

Again, silence fell between them, and in the distance, somewhere out in the fields of Wiltshire, a rooster crowed. The particles of dust in the room floated leisurely in midair, reflecting the sunlight from the dirty windows, and he felt oddly as if he were viewing the room through a filter.

It was a strange morning.

When he looked back at Astoria, he saw that she was leaning sideways against the couch now, her body facing his, legs slightly bent beneath her. The position looked terribly uncomfortable, but she was relaxed, her blue eyes flitting leisurely over the carpet. He had never realized how small she was compared to him.

"I'm sure she's awake by now," he said, rather halfheartedly.

"It's still early," Astoria said in a low voice, closing her eyes tiredly. "Do you mind if we wait a bit?"

He didn't answer, but leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes as well.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Astoria winced as the lights around the rest of the room sprang to life.

Blinking to readjust her sight, she turned her focus back onto the books and notes that were spread over her desk, passages in particular shining in the bright gold glow of magical highlighter.

Under the sterile white light of the room, the low walls that divided the area into small cubicles seemed to draw in tighter; the night's shadows had made her feel more safe than trapped while she worked under the light of a single lamp, but now she couldn't help a slight sensation of distaste as she remembered why she hated working in the office.

Absentmindedly, she reached sideways to drink the last dregs of tea in the charmed teacup she had kept at her side. She must have drunk more than two liters during the night; she silently made a mental note to thank Cecilia Fletcher for the highschool gift.

She could hear footsteps from across the room, presumably from whoever had triggered the lights with their movement. Ignoring them, she pursed her lips and tried to focus her tired sight on the list of hastily scribbled notes in front of her that constituted the defense that would hopefully save Narcissa from Azkaban that day, and Draco only a few days later.

_c.e. nott not reliable_

Thinking back, she was slightly embarrassed by the knowledge that she had dozed against the front of the Malfoys' couch for over an hour after her conversation with Draco. Though it had been far from the most comfortable sleep she had ever had, there had been something peaceful about the slightly dusty, sunlit room with its tarnished windows. She hadn't even minded it much when she had awoken to the sight of her client, the back of his head towards her as he faced the windows, his hair rather disheveled: evidence that he had slept nearly as much as she had.

They hadn't really said much afterwards; not even when Ollie brought them breakfast, her eyes shining with tears and her small, ugly hands shaking so much she nearly shattered the teacups as she glanced at her master out of the corner of her eye. Astoria had left the nettle tea untouched, but she had helped herself to some of the food, hoping that the savory taste of bacon would help dissipate the sleepiness that weighed down on her eyelids.

A sleepiness which had now returned, weighing down on her entire body even as she sat hunched over her desk, trying to turn her abbreviated sentences into entire paragraphs of convincing evidence.

_overheard conv. with L_

The truth, though, was that nothing she had could completely convince her that she would win the case. The more she looked over the evidence, the more she came to realize that giving a speech with a ridiculous amount of confidence would be the only chance she had: in both cases, most of the knowledge she had collected came from witnesses the jury was bound to see as unreliable.

And there was, of course, the issue of Narcissa's seemingly permanent silence. She had pleaded for an extension on the grounds that Narcissa would be able to talk this time. The Wizengamot only seemed to be willing to truly study the case if the accused herself testified, but it was clear that nothing anyone said or did would be able to make the woman say a word.

Astoria's only chance was to blind them with the sheer amount of confidence she exuded.

And as it was, that was something she was finding harder and harder to muster, especially after spending over twenty four hours poring over the same documents, both physically and in her mind. A mild headache was already beginning to pound lightly on the inside of her skull.

She reached the third item in the list.

_react. 30 june_

She had hoped that Draco would remain on the floor, or at the very least lying on the couch, given the sickly state he was still in, but as soon as his mother had glided in through the doorway with the silent grace of a ghost, he had jumped to his feet (or tried to), almost ignoring the angry scar that still marked the recent wound on his forearm.

"I sincerely don't see the point," he had said, pronouncing the words with a sort careful eloquence that had only emphasized his scorn, still holding half a slice of bacon between his fingers, but the weary way in which he had leaned against the door frame had betrayed how weak he still was. She had ignored him and continued to gently question his mother, while Draco had swayed slightly where he stood, eyes pointedly avoiding the space his mother occupied.

Historically, there  _had_  been instances in which testimonies provided by unreliable witnesses had significantly influenced the outcome of a trial, but they were never really officially taken into account, and in this case, it didn't help that most of the jury was already set on dismissing everything Draco said as lies to protect a fellow criminal.

_gryf ghost t._

The worst part was that if only Astoria could find a witness to Narcissa's actions surrounding what had happened in that time, a witness that  _wasn't dead_ , they could have a fighting chance.

And that was without even thinking about Draco's steadily sinking case, which sat waiting for her as soon as she was done with this one.

_u v_

He had stumbled into his bedroom with her following uneasily behind him, and had let himself sink onto a vast four-poster bed with forest-green cushions. The drapes that had once given it a regal look now hung rather lopsidedly, though it was obvious that the Elf had attempted to restore them with magic but hadn't quite succeeded. Draco had leaned against one of the wooden pillars and watched her dispassionately as she had crossed the dark carpet and taken a seat on a small chair near an old wooden dresser, ignoring the crumpled pile of clothing that hid in the opposite corner and the filthy glass of the windows that peeked out from behind the thick curtains.

"You're really going to question me now?" he had asked, surveying her calmly. He had fallen back onto the bed, looking up at the disordered drapes above. As he had turned away from her, she hadn't been able to see the expression on his face.

"She made Snape make an Unbreakable Vow."

He had reached sideways with his healthy arm to toy with the edge of one of the cushions. The sunlight that filtered through the window had somehow made him look even paler, his hair nearly bright white against the dark covers. There had been something almost tragically beautiful about the young man who hid his face from her by looking away. He had looked so vulnerable that Astoria had wondered for what had to be the millionth time how such a man could have been an arrogant bully only a few years earlier.

She supposed that was the same blatant contradiction that she was going to have to reconcile during his trial.

She started as the sound of approaching footsteps grew suddenly louder and suppressed a sudden irrational desire to hide, like a child discovered by her father as she continues her game after bedtime.

Despite the quickly stifled thoughts that were clearly born from her overworked mind, Astoria suspected that the look she gave Bill Weasley as he entered her field of vision was slightly stained of unwarranted guilt.

He stopped suddenly in his tracks, his tall figure towering over her as he raised an eyebrow, his eyes still rather sleepy. It was, after all, still ridiculously early in the morning. Astoria was mystified as to what the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was doing in a cluttered, stuffy office that was probably one of the most distant areas of the department, both literally and figuratively speaking, given the completely different nature of the work carried out there.

As it was, a small, polite smile formed on his face, which looked rather pale under the white lights of the room, contrasted against the dark grey of his robes and the bright red of his hair. The scars on his skin stood out even more than usual, but she was used to it now; used to seeing people that were scarred.

"Working late?" he asked as he continued down the narrow space between cubicles. He didn't have to raise his voice much; the entire floor was most likely empty. He stopped to lean down, draw out his wand, rummaging rather clumsily in something, causing a rustling noise of paper. "Or exceptionally early?"

"Late," she answered, mustering up a tired sort of politeness, distinctly aware that at this point it hardly mattered whether he was in the room or not. Either way, her brain needed a rest from what felt like an endless series of ink scribbles on worn out parchment. This wasn't exactly how she had intended to meet with the Head of the Department on that particular day; her hair disheveled, still wearing the same robes she had worn while wiping Draco Malfoy's blood off of the sitting room carpet.

Weasley let out a muffled exclamation and suddenly emerged, waving a small cloud of purple paper airplanes over his head with the tip of his wand, another one unfolded and clutched in his free hand. He was scowling. "They always lose their way on Friday mornings," he explained as he glanced down at the writing in the memo. "I keep letting Maintenance know but they never get around to it." With a sharp flick of his wand, the cloud of rustling papers soared away over the cubicles and he fixed Astoria with a look that almost seemed concerned. "Since what time have you been here?"

Astoria glanced at the clock that peeked out from under the mountain of papers of her desk, ticking faintly. "Nine."

His blue eyes seemed to frown at her, as if they suspected that she was only being partially truthful; she must have left Draco's home only half-past noon and dug into a series of heavy volumes in the Hogwarts Library following a brief stop at her flat to confirm that McGonagall had indeed authorized her visit in a letter that morning and to open a letter Daphne had sent her, which she quickly regretted reading. Afterwards she had had to renew her application to the Spirits Division for a Summoning at court and carefully go over a series of transcripts, trying to make sense of her own rushed annotations. Only after that had she been able to sit down to try and condense all her gathered information, which was still much less than she had hoped to have at that point, into a suitable defense. "Miss Greengrass, make sure you're not overworking yourself."

She looked up into his eyes and had a brief glimpse of Draco's grey ones as he had stared up at her, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, his hands clutching at his own knees with a vehemence she didn't think he had realized he was displaying. The soft golden light of the small windows near the ceiling, the authenticity of which she had never been quite certain, and which was nearly lost in the bright light of the room, reminded her of how she had leaned sideways onto the back of the chair and watched a man two years older than her curl up in a near-fetal position, his anguish pathetically, uncontrollably on display as he spoke about his mother, and she had come to the quiet realization that Draco Malfoy had worse scars than the one on his forearm.

"I do what's necessary," she said simply.

He gave her a serious look, absentmindedly folding the purple paper in his hands. "I spoke to Bogdan yesterday. He told me you've only just completed training. Regardless of the nature of the cases you're working on..." he stopped short and pressed his lips together briefly. Astoria knew what he meant to say, but it was evident that he didn't want it to sound like he was discouraging her from the cases. After all, he was still one of those presiding over the trials and anything directly referring to the cases would be unethical. "As Head of this Department, it worries me that you might be wearing yourself out. You are aware, I hope, that nobody expects you to reach the top within a week? Even Bogdan, as stringent as he is, didn't expect you to do more than  _assist_  in a case. You don't need to prove yourself to anyone."

"Don't I?"

Astoria was suddenly painfully aware of the letter pressed against her through the pocket of her robes, Daphne's sickeningly loopy handwriting in green ink trying and failing to mask the scathing comments transcribed from her mother's lips.

Weasley's expression didn't change, but his tone did, almost imperceptibly. Maybe he recognized the faltering cynicism that had escaped along with her words. "I must say, I was startled to hear that a Greengrass was joining Administration Services. It's a brave thing, to branch out from the family business; and it's remarkable how successful you've been so far. Not many are a match for Macmillan, and he's had years of a head start. I'm sure they're proud of you."

The smile on her lips was oddly frozen, mechanical. She couldn't help the tone of remorse. "Obviously our families are very different."

As soon as the words left her lips, she realized her mistake. Even the slightest hint at what could be interpreted as a remainder of the old notions of blood purity that had so plagued the Wizarding World were now dangerous; especially coming from a Greengrass towards a Weasley. The tensions that had once ruled the relationships between the more prominent pureblood families, even those who had been too afraid to pick a side, and the persecuted 'blood traitors' had still not faded completely. There was an uncharacteristic stammer to her words as she quickly added, "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he replied calmly, and the tense atmosphere shifted slightly as he dismissed it. He sighed. "What I mean to say is that you are a very valuable asset to the Ministry. But there are others who could take on some of the weight. When this is over, it might be in your best interest to take things slowly, maybe be an assistant to a case. There's no need to rush into things and overwork yourself."

There was, after all, a reason for why Bill Weasley was at the Ministry so early that day. Astoria had heard that at times he even worked on weekends. In the months directly after the War, there was a rush to reform the Ministry and turn the corrupt, dangerous entity spawned by the Death Eaters into a more recognizable figure of organized justice. Under the direction of many of the heroes from the War, the Ministry had even been improved from the way it had been in the peaceful years between Wars, and many of the old systems and bureaucracies had disappeared. There had been a rush to train new Aurors and round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters, and hundreds of people had even done the work for no pay, given the needs of the country.

Still, the energy could only go on for so long, and in the two years that followed people had begun to leave, looking forward to a rest from the strenuous demands of their jobs. It was a well deserved holiday, but it left the Ministry severely understaffed. The energy that had characterized those that had rebuilt the government had now been worn out, and only a few remained.

Astoria could tell that Bill Weasley feared she would lose momentum soon.

She smiled and tried to mask the air of dismissal it inevitably created."Thank you for your concern, Mr. Weasley," she said as politely as she could, but the memory of the small crescent-shaped bruises on Draco's neck was still stark against her mind. "But I'm afraid that in these cases that isn't much of a choice. Hardly anyone wants to take on the defense. Who's going to stand up for them?"

She knew he understood who she meant when she said  _them_. Not the Malfoys, not the children of the once powerful Death Eaters; she knew he had heard the underlying  _us_ that hid beneath the surface.

He held her gaze for a long moment. She knew that he knew she was right.

Weasley nodded pensively, the lines on his face tense. "Well," he said. "I don't know if you're aware of the Greyback situation. Apparently Shafiq had some tricks up his sleeve, and the trial's been extended, which is bound to create an uproar. I won't be surprised if we have more protests, maybe even worse than the ones when Umbridge stood trial." He scowled. "I had thought this would end sooner, but apparently it'll take longer than we thought."

"He can't possibly find a loophole," Astoria said with disbelief. No one wanted to defend people like the Malfoys, not even Perkins, whom Astoria suspected had been paid the entire remainder of what had once been the Malfoys' vast fortune, so it was all the more surprising that someone like Greyback had been able to find someone willing to compromise their entire reputation for him. He must have had money stashed away somewhere. "There have been too many victims."

"Oh, he'll be locked up for the rest of his life, that's for sure," Weasley replied. "But they'll try to drag it out for as long as possible. And it's dangerous for people like your clients; with so many angry people opening up old wounds from the War, there's bound to be a few prone to violence. I'm sorry to say that we currently don't have enough Aurors to ensure sufficient safety. So make sure the Malfoys are aware of the danger; hopefully this is all unnecessary worry but as soon as the news hits the  _Prophet_  this morning there'll be an uproar. It wouldn't be the first time people become unplanned targets."

Astoria nodded, suddenly sharply aware of Draco's sneering  _You underestimate me and my self-mutilating talents_  and the strangely different line of his nose, the bright purple of the paper in Weasley's hands reminiscent of the blotchy, bright marks that had dotted his arms and face while he had lied bleeding on the floor of Malfoy Manor. She had fixed the most of it, but the colors still stood out on his neck against the pale white of his shirt.

"Well, I'll leave you to your work," said Weasley with a curt smile. "There's still a towering mountain of paperwork in my office. Good luck," he added, seemingly deciding against a customary  _I'll see you this afternoon_. Perhaps he could tell that it would send her into a near-hysterical count of how many more minutes she had before it began.

He walked away, disappearing around the corner with a flash of red hair and leaving the room just as sterile-white and silent as it had been before he had stepped in. Astoria turned back to the pile of words and disjointed sentences, painfully aware of the weight of the work before her and the even heavier weight of Daphne's letter in her pocket.

...

Draco straightened his robes and fought to keep his face expressionless despite the acid pooling in his stomach.

Astoria had forced the ragged curtains open with a particularly powerful spell, though she hadn't been entirely successful; Draco suspected that the invisible, noxious fumes of Dark Magic still lingered in the room, attaching themselves to anything that had remained there over the years. The light filtered reluctantly through the grimy windows and made hundreds of glass particles on the dusty alabaster floor glint like diamonds. The sight of it, as well as the sharp crunching sound that reminded him of breaking bones, made his head swim.

Still, there was a strange sort of comfort to be derived from the uncomfortable group that stood in a semicircle at the edge of the place that still threw him into a whirlwind of gruesome memories. He would never admit it, but the sight of Astoria's slender figure lit by the pale greenish light and the barely-concealed expressions of discomfort on the faces of the obviously inexperienced Aurors threw the scene off, jarring his memories and making the differences between this scenario and the one that had taken place little over two years ago fortunately quite stark.

And the miniature, sharp shards of glass only bothered him if he looked at them too much.

Greengrass had her hands clasped before her with a self-assured serenity that  _had_  to be forced, because nobody could possibly be so calm in a room that was obviously overflowing with ghosts and underlying tensions.

"I trust you know what to do, then?"

The Aurors, whose names Draco couldn't be bothered to learn, nodded with reluctant respect. It brought him a sort of perverse pleasure to see them so quiet; after all, they couldn't openly reveal how deeply they despised him, couldn't bully him in front of the one woman who could really give them trouble if they stepped out of line. They didn't really mask the looks of disgust they shot at him, or the brutish way with which they had jostled him on their way to that end of the room, but they were limited by Astoria's watchful eye, which had obviously held all the authority in the room from the moment she had arrived.

"We were briefed on it, yes," the round-faced Auror said, refraining from snapping for the sake of courtesy. "There's already other Aurors in the Atrium, so it shouldn't be that bad."

"It still might not be enough," Astoria replied, pursing her lips together before turning to Draco and Narcissa. "Just stay close, all right?"

He nodded tersely, keenly aware of his mother's silent, statuesque presence at his side. Astoria held his gaze for a millisecond before turning towards the fireplace. "Let's go, then."

He ignored the clinking sound of the glass as they all involuntarily kicked particles forward with each step. The round-faced Auror went first, his wand drawn and ready in his hand. Draco stepped forwards as soon as the other man vanished, seizing his mother's wrist without so much as glancing at her; he had a feeling that if he did, the acid stirring in his stomach would rise even further. Instead, he pulled her into the fire with him as the green flames rose about their bodies, and met Astoria's eyes once more. She looked decidedly alert, the shadows under her eyes almost unnoticeable beneath the bright blue of her eyes that shone with intense energy. Her briefcase was in her hands again, her heels crushing the glass beneath them as she took another step closer to the flames...

He was glad she hadn't asked why no one had cleaned the drawing room in so long.

The fire rose and Draco felt the world spin around him, his mother's arm limp in his grasp.

This time he was expecting the loud chorus of shouts that rang throughout the Atrium as soon as he stepped out of the fire with a bit less grace than he had hoped, his mother following behind him with the same odd tense-yet-docile gait. The Auror was beckoning him tersely with an eye on the crowd that had gathered near where the fountain had once been. He was doing his job, for once. Draco ignored the explosion of anger that inevitably took place every time he looked at him; hypocrites... they were all hypocrites. While Ministry officials were present and they could get caught, they would defend him with their lives, but as soon as they were left on their own, they were willing to take gold offered by any psychotic criminal that came their way.

Again, his father's words rang in his head. He tensed his jaw and followed the very man that had let Nott torture and bind him to the floor of Lucius Malfoy's study. Behind him, he heard the familiar sound of Astoria's brisk footsteps over the din of the rest of the Atrium, and they were led towards a corridor leading out from the farthest side, away from where a mass of witches and wizards stood shouting words with voices hoarse from the effort, flashing signs held up over their heads.

He avoided thinking too deeply into the shameful feeling of relief that washed over him involuntarily as the few witches and wizards they encountered stepped away from the Aurors flanking him. He knew that the protection wouldn't have been anywhere near enough had they had to go through the angry crowd, which was significantly louder than the small group of people he had accidentally become entangled with on Monday, but he still remembered the painful contact between his nose and Creevey's fist, and couldn't help being glad that he wasn't alone.

The feeling lasted only very briefly, though, because as soon as they found themselves in a lift, Astoria's fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of her briefcase, unease injected itself into his system again. In a way, he was surprised he was still capable of feeling it after nearly two years of prolonged exposure.

The familiar mechanical voice rang out through the tense air as the doors of the lift slid open, and Draco found himself following after the round-faced Auror once more, fingers still tightly wound around his mother's ice-cold wrist. He relaxed his grip ever so slightly when he caught sight of his own bruises, still dotting certain areas of his knuckles that Greengrass hadn't managed to fix. Narcissa didn't seem to notice.

The mutters of the groups still lingering around the entrances of other courtrooms felt muted this time. The air in his lungs felt oddly frozen, visions of the sharp, jagged rocks of Azkaban and his father's haunted grey eyes mingling with the bright lights of the courtroom as they stepped inside.

He couldn't help the sudden urge he had to not let go of his mother's wrist.

He couldn't help the slight shaking of his fingers as he  _did_  let go, or the painful clenching of his jaw as he watched her being led towards the center of the room.

He couldn't help that it took him nearly an entire minute to coax life back into his legs and go sit alone on one of the benches.

Running a hand through his hair, he tried to force himself to focus, but the room seemed to swim with the glinting eyes of everyone around him, the bright plum-colored robes of the Council members seeming to stain everything with the same color no matter how much he looked away. Even the polished floor seemed to reflect strange shapes and more eyes, more jagged rocks and ice-cold iron bars enclosing a cell...

Narcissa's robes were made of silk; he could feel the soft fabric only by looking at it. Her hair, loose around her shoulders yet immaculate, was white-blonde, too clean to withstand the rigurous, dark life on a distant rocky prison island. Her hands, still pearly and delicate as was required of a beautiful woman from a Pureblood family, still bearing the silver band that bound her to the weakened, disheveled man that had once enjoyed power over nearly the entire Ministry of Magic.

 _What was she thinking_ _?_

Like a sharp stab, his eyes caught sight of the edge of the jagged white scar on his forearm emerging from beneath his sleeve. He turned away from his mother and watched the Minister rise to his feet.

_"The Wizengamot is present today to pass judgment on the case of Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, accused of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards..."_

He almost had the words memorized, he realized, as Shacklebolt's powerful voice echoed throughout the vast room, the slight fidgets of all seated glaringly loud in the silence his voice left behind. " _To this, the accused pleads not guilty._ "

The names were read out. Astoria caught Bill Weasley's eye for the shortest of moments. Ernie Macmillan arranged his papers and lifted his head to look up at the Wizengamot, like a lion rearing its head.

And Narcissa was most certainly, most definitely, not going to speak.

"Last week the Wizengamot allowed for an extension on health grounds," the Minister recited. "The council was concerned as to the accused's lack of testimony; it wished to see Narcissa Malfoy speak on her own behalf before rendering a verdict."

Astoria didn't do so much as flinch, her expression unreadable. But even from a distance, Draco could see that her knuckles were white with tension.

"To begin, call forward the prosecutor."

The sound of Macmillan's chair scraping against the marble floor was almost like an announcement, and there was a distinct air of triumph in his eyes as he rose, his mouth a thin, decided line.

"Members of the Wizengamot, I am afraid there is not much more left to say," he declared, pacing, his polished shoes silent as he walked from one side of the available space to the other. "What more is there to say about Narcissa Malfoy? Have we not already established the facts about her life, both before and during the Wars? Have we not made it painfully clear that she was involved with the Death Eaters during  _both_  Wars? Has this not established the reality of her loyalties despite the lies she and her husband, a renowned leader among the Death Eaters, fed to  _this very council_  during the trials following the sudden end of the First War? Does this not define her, and every decision and carefully outlined move she has made from that moment onward, as deceitful and cunning in order to serve her own interests? Is it not blatantly clear to us that the Malfoy family has always pursued social and economic standing with no consideration for the legality or morality of the means to which it resorts?"

He paused almost dramatically, eyes running all those seated. When he continued, he did so slowly, carefully punctuating every word. "Narcissa has been many things during her life. She has occupied many roles in our world. Firstly, she has been a daughter. Then, a student. Then a wife, and very soon a mother. Now, she stands trial for war crimes, collaborating in the murder and torture of hundreds that she deemed to be  _beneath her_." He stopped his pacing. "Something is very wrong with this woman. How can a mother of a child, a loving wife, once a student of the very school she later  _attacked_ , disregard the morality of her actions so thoroughly? Perhaps we can argue that she was  _coerced_ , or  _frightened_  by the pressure exerted on her and her family.

"Why, then, did she not reach out to those who could help her? How many families sought Dumbledore's protection when they first heard of the Dark Lord's return? There were many! There have always been options for those who wished to do the right thing. But Narcissa remained, and she herself put her own child at risk; she  _allowed_  the situation to worsen and  _she participated willingly_.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot: the Magical World has lost so much over the course of the past thirty years. So many souls have sacrificed themselves so that we may live, and so many are missed and will be missed for as long as we live. Out of respect for their sacrifice, we will honor them, and it is out of respect for their sacrifice that we must impart justice. After the First War, we were not able to honor those we lost like this: so many hid behind the pretense of the Imperius Curse and 'coercion'. Will we allow this to happen once more? Will we allow the guilty to walk free while their victims are lost to us forever?"

He was flushed, his eyes shining with determined ferocity. Contrasted against Narcissa's impenetrable serenity, Macmillan was the embodiment of  _human_. Draco didn't even have to look at the people dressed in the thick plum robes to know that their votes were already in Macmillan's hands.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his father's haunted eyes reflected the iron bars of his prison cell.

Draco shivered.

Macmillan had returned to his seat, and Astoria was on her feet, all trace of exhaustion left in her body now nonexistent. The attention of everyone in the room snapped on to her as she stepped forwards, her face upturned towards the benches surrounding her, eyes like blue fire.

"We could stand here and talk about Narcissa Malfoy. We could, perhaps, discuss the different challenges of being born into a Pureblood family, one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' and one of the best known for the teaching of supremacist lies and other superstitions since their children are born. We could study in detail the pressures of being a teenage girl in a society that demands with particular ferocity that you adhere to its rules and its principles, no matter how dangerous they are. We could analyze the factors that made it so that a marriage between a Malfoy and a Black, seemingly a marriage of convenience, could blossom into a relationship of genuine affection, despite the fact that one of them was a Death Eater. We could look  _deeply_  into the phenomenon of young people who run rashly to support a cause they don't fully understand, and how, years later, they are forced to suffer the consequences of pledging themselves to a dangerous master, despite how drastically their lives may have changed, regardless of their children or the choices they had made in their maturity.

"We could do all of this; but we have done it already. We have done it  _endlessly_ ; we have studied the facts and tried to understand what exactly it is that makes Narcissa Malfoy any different from the others who supported Voldemort over the last thirty years. Well," she clasped her fingers in front of her, eyes scanning her audience. "Allow me to tell you a story.

"On the 28th of June 1996, Narcissa Malfoy makes her way to Spinner's End, which some of you may recognize as being the place of Severus Snape's childhood home."

The silence had shifted. Draco watched warily as inaudible whispers were shared among some of the watchers. The famous article on Severus Snape had emerged only a few days after the War had officially ended, and had sparked a multitude of articles and books of different varieties studying the truth about him. Draco had avoided them studiously. Even the titles had sickened him, turning the old git into some sort of misunderstood hero.

He closed his eyes briefly and tried to dismiss the memory of Snape. He didn't feel like thinking about  _that_  now.

"She went there with the explicit intention of convincing Severus Snape to do three very specific things. One: that he watch over her son Draco while he attempted to fulfill the mission given to him by Voldemort. Two: that he protect Draco from any harm. And three: that, should Draco fail in his mission, Snape should carry it out for him."

Draco turned his eyes to the ground as many gazes wandered towards him. Eyes, eyes, so many eyes. He clenched his fingers against the edge of the bench. 

"Are you aware of what this mission was?" he could almost hear the complacent ghost of a smile on Astoria's lips. He could almost hear the Wizengamot put the two and two together, feel the slow crescendo in the air as both cases, his and his mother's, met and collided with a resounding snap. "To lead the attack on Hogwarts, and on Albus Dumbledore."

But Astoria didn't even wait for the information to sink in completely before she delivered the second blow. "Narcissa Malfoy made Severus Snape swear an Unbreakable Vow, promising these three things."

The collective sound of the intake of breath of the entire audience was shattering. Draco looked up, his eyes searching only for the expression on Astoria's face.

She had won their attention. She may not have convinced them of anything just yet, but they were hers. Macmillan sat stiffly in the corner, body unmoving as he leaned over the desk, as if poised for attack. Greengrass looked at no one in particular, but there was a victorious note to her step, an electric air about her as she opened her mouth to speak once more.

_Blind them with the sheer amount of confidence._

"Voldemort underestimated Narcissa," Astoria continued, her tone slightly louder, for murmurs had broken out among the crowd. " _He_  thought that she was a docile wife of a weakened Death Eater. He thought he could threaten her and send her son to nearly certain death by giving him a mission almost impossible to carry out. He thought that she would cower under his ruling and be terrorized by his threats. She was not. She  _ensured_  that the mission would be carried out and that her son would be safe, not because she cared about the Death Eaters, but because she cared about  _her son_. And she hid this fact from Voldemort so well that he never knew the truth; he never found out that his most trusted servant had been assigned a mission on  _her_  orders.

"And all of this,  _all of it_ , was for her son. Not for Voldemort, not for her husband, not even for herself. It was all for her son, whom she loved above anything else.  _This_  was Narcissa Malfoy's sole goal during the War: to get her son out alive."

And with a slight bow of her head, she was back at her desk with all the grace of a skilled actress. Draco's fingers had gone numb around the wood of the bench.

The volume of the murmurs increased, and the Minister of Magic had to raise a hand to quiet the voices. Edgecombe's quill scribbled with such speed and intensity that Draco feared she might rip the parchment in half.

A voice cleared its throat. A hand was in the air.

A member of the Wizengamot stood, a question on her lips. In the corner, Macmillan sat as if petrified, cheeks devoid of color, nails digging into the parchment before him ferociously. Astoria bore herself with tranquility, but Draco had learned not to look at her face; her knuckles were so white he thought her bones might tear through the skin.

The Minister nodded. The witch had wispy white hair tinged with orange. She looked down at Greengrass with sharp, though not unkindly eyes.

"On what evidence have you based this account?"

The tension was palpable. Astoria unclenched her fist and swept a finger over the edge of the parchment before her. Draco looked away at once, feeling his elbows shake as he sat completely still in his seat. He was eerily aware of his mother's presence, like a cold ivory pillar in the center of the room.

Astoria knew she had three seconds to produce an answer before she sounded insecure. She had known the question would be coming; of course it would. And as soon as she answered it, Macmillan would pounce. As it was, she had expected  _him_ to be the one inquiring after the origin of the anecdote, but someone else had been quicker to catch it before he had. She didn't spend too much time wondering why that was; her mind was racing through the list of all the variations of  _Draco Malfoy told me_  that she had come up with, along with their matching responses for the inevitable objection with which Macmillan would shoot back. Draco Malfoy was not a reliable witness.

Draco Malfoy was  _not_  a reliable witness.

_Blind them with the sheer amount of confidence._

She stood up, fists pushing down onto the table, feeling her nails dig into her skin painfully. One second. Macmillan's eyes were on her, shining ready behind his glasses. She opened her mouth to speak the words she knew were  _still not enough…_

"On my testimony."

A sharp voice rang out through the room. There was an audible stir as all turned towards the back, where someone had emerged from the crowded doorway.

Harry Potter stepped into the courtroom, his face grave.


	12. Chapter 12

There was no time.

There was no time to allow her eyes to widen, her lips to fall apart ever so slightly, her fingers to relinquish their iron grip, her knees to weaken, her breathing halt, her heart to skip a beat; no, there was no time for Astoria to show even the slightest trace of surprise, because her credibility depended on there not being even a millisecond of astonishment on her face.

She kept her expression as unaffected as she could and watched Harry Potter step forwards until he was level with her desk.

He looked very different from the Potter she had seen in the  _Daily Prophet_ for the last few years. He was clean shaven, his green eyes positively  _flaming_  beneath the round spectacles she remembered him wearing even in the days when she had been a nervous First Year glancing at the boy she had only read about with wide eyes, his skin retaining a bit more color than it had in the past (holidays in Australia, the gossip columns had reported). He looked oddly out of place as he stood in the middle of the courtroom, towering over his seated audience despite his relatively short height, shoulders squared and posture firm.

He glanced at her briefly and she gazed back, trying to read him in the split second their eyes made contact. She didn't understand; she had lost her footing and was desperately trying to regain it while those around her only had eyes for their famous savior, watching transfixed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded, and even his normally immutable expression held faint traces of astonishment. Potter had hardly showed his face in the past year; and though the press theorized and at times still tried to twist him into a controversial figure, the majority of the Wizarding World had agreed that Harry Potter had already done enough.

But here he was.

At Narcissa Malfoy's trial.

Offering to testify.

Astoria forced her mind and body to pull themselves together, even as the Minister turned to look at her.

With painstakingly designed ease, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest, she straightened ever so slightly, knowing she couldn't afford to look at Potter again.

"My witness wishes to produce the entirety of his testimony before a cross-examination," she announced, feeling oddly disconnected from the voice that was escaping her lips, tasting the guesses that tasted terribly like lies.

And out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Potter produce the slightest of nods.

It was not directed at her, but while the tension in her muscles did not disappear, the pulsing rhythm at her throat receded noticeably.

It was a rather controversial request; the Ministry hardly ever allowed a witness to testify without a barrister's questioning in war trials because of the ridiculous amount of irrelevant information they provided, built over a context purely composed of hearsay and unreliable evidence.

But Macmillan did not object, though Astoria saw his jaw twitch almost imperceptibly.

No one would protest against the Boy Who Lived.

The members of the Wizengamot glanced at each other and Astoria could tell that Bill Weasley was also surprised to see Potter there; his eyebrows were drawn together in some puzzlement. And Astoria felt a sudden nauseating onslaught of anxiety.  _What was Potter going to say?_

What if he wasn't there to testify in Narcissa's favor?

_There was something she had missed._

Grinding her teeth together, she forced her heart rate to remain tame. Time seemed to move at an almost impossibly slow pace as Shacklebolt exchanged a few words with those beside him and then pronounced his approval.

Potter stepped forwards into the very center of the room, facing the Wizengamot, the grim determination in his footsteps making him seem so very  _human_  in stark contrast to Narcissa, whose grey eyes continued to stare ahead absently.

Astoria's eyes suddenly shifted to where Draco was sitting, to her far left.

His expression was unreadable.

"Many of you must be wondering why I'm here," Potter began slowly. "Lately I've become uninvolved in matters of the Ministry, and I plan to stay so in the near future." He took a deep breath. "But this is a case that I couldn't, in good conscience, ignore.

"Narcissa Malfoy is a case that, had you asked me before the final Battle of Hogwarts, I would have declared to be obvious;  _obviously_  she was involved with the Death Eaters.  _Obviously_ , she deserved to go to Azkaban just as much as Lucius Malfoy did. But in the last hour of the Battle, I learned exactly the same things that, if I've read correctly, the defense has been stating.

"As you know, when Voldemort took me back to Hogwarts from the Forbidden Forest, he thought I was dead. He thought he'd killed me; I acted as if he had. And the reason for why my pretense of being dead wasn't discovered was Narcissa Malfoy."

Astoria could almost  _hear_  them all holding their breaths; her own lungs felt painfully tight beneath her ribs. The courtroom had fallen into complete silence; his language was so  _simple._ Potter was barely more than a schoolboy, but his presence had the great power of bringing memories of the War to mind, at times the losses with more force than the victories. Nearly everyone in that room was bound to have lost someone to the Battle of Hogwarts; the members of the Wizengamot certainly had.

Harry Potter didn't pace like she or Macmillan had; he held his ground. Newspaper articles flashed through her mind: stories telling of the dramatic moments before Voldemort had been killed. And she couldn't help but plead desperately in silence that the story he was about to tell would truly help her… even the smallest of stories supporting some good trait that had gone hitherto unnoticed in Narcissa Malfoy would help… especially when coming from someone like him.

His shoulders were rigid and she couldn't see his face anymore, but his voice was firm as he pressed forward with his story before the dumbfounded eyes of the jury. "After he delivered the Killing Curse and I realized I wasn't dead, I stayed still on the ground some feet away from Voldemort. He ordered Mrs. Malfoy to check on me; to see if I was really dead. I did my best to stay completely still and not give myself away by breathing too hard… I don't know if you've ever tried, but it's not that easy to pretend to be dead." He sounded humorous. He was  _funny._  How could he sound _funny?_  She was almost angry at him.  _What did I miss?_  "She put her fingers to my pulse and I was sure it was all over; Voldemort would discover that I was alive and it all would've been for nothing.

"But as she leaned over me and put her fingers to my pulse and felt that I was really very much alive… she whispered to me. She asked me if Draco was alive. I said yes. And she announced that I was dead."

The new information hit Astoria so violently that she barely stopped herself from jerking back at the impact. She only just managed to contain her surprise. She had not known, Draco had not known, no one had known…  _Thank Merlin Potter had known._

Because the truth was that Astoria herself had had no idea what she was defending. While she knew Draco and had spoken to him repeatedly, had been able to see through his eyes and understand where he came from, Narcissa had always remained a mystery. Defending her had not only been difficult; it had been nearly impossible. How could she defend someone who had so much evidence stacked against her? How could she defend a woman and say that  _she did it for Draco_  when the woman herself wouldn't do so much as glance at her son?

Especially after finding said son bleeding out on the sitting room carpet, knowing that had she not arrived soon after, it was most likely that his mother wouldn't have done anything about it…

And all her defense was was a carefully constructed wall of  _things-she-had-guessed_  and  _things-Draco-implied_  and  _this-wasn't-quite-as-bad_ … She had hardly believed herself any more than the Wizengamot had.

And she hadn't even let herself think it, really, but as she watched Potter's stiff back and the wide eyes of the audience around them, she was suddenly glaringly aware of the doubts that had previously plagued her, and at the same time breathless with the shock of knowing that she had somehow been right anyway.

The entire room had frozen. Many in the room had gasped. Astoria didn't spare the audience a look. Potter was speaking again.

"She stared into Voldemort's eyes, her master's eyes, and lied. It was an  _extremely_  dangerous thing to do. He could have found out… and she didn't even know that he wouldn't be able to kill me afterwards. For all she knew, she could die instants later, but she didn't care. She just wanted to save her son."

Her hammering heart felt like it had stopped completely. She was completely still, her mind struggling to process the information Potter had produced, her expression struggling to remain unfazed.

She glanced at Draco and saw that he was just as statue-like as his mother.

The Minister was clearing his throat, surprise evident on his face. Potter was silent, completely still beside an equally motionless Narcissa. Draco seemed disconnected from the situation. Macmillan, for the first time, seemed completely disconcerted by what was happening.

"Mr. Macmillan?"

His head snapped up, eyes wide before the Minister, shifting towards Potter now and then, his mouth opening with almost palpable hesitation.

"Shall we proceed with the cross-examination?"

And Astoria knew it, with a thrill of understanding and victory and possibly  _fear_  and  _intense, extremely intense confusion_.

They had won.

Because no one could stand up to Harry Potter. No one could question the man who had saved the entire Wizarding World as if there was any doubt about his words. No one could possibly produce evidence that could refute that. If Harry Potter said that that was the way it had happened, then that was it.

Potter hadn't even needed to interpret the situation for them. There was no need for Astoria to step up and explain how his account fit her previous defense of Narcissa Malfoy with almost divine perfection. The jury had understood, because Potter had understood and, unfair and frightening as that was, they would accept anything from him.

"I don't believe there is anything more to say, Minister," said Macmillan.

And then Shacklebolt nodded, and words were exchanged, and Harry Potter moved to the back of the room with nearly all eyes following him, and the murmurs of the Wizengamot filled the room with an indistinct buzz, and Astoria clung to the edge of the desk, all the strength in her body concentrated on making herself look  _triumphant,_ as if  _she_  had been the one with the brilliant idea of bringing Potter forth. And she could almost feel the hurricane of emotions that was Draco Malfoy on the other side of the room over the overwhelming tension, even as he sat unmoving on the bench, eyes downcast, jaw set tightly.

And then, the words she hadn't even dared to  _dream of_  anymore…

"Cleared."

_Cleared._

The room shifted, stirred, and finally the perfect order in which it had been fell apart as people scrambled to their feet with some bewilderment, breaking the hushed silence to pieces and replacing it with a rising commotion. It was like awaking from a very strange dream.

Draco felt his jaw slacken slightly and absently marveled at the pain the movement released. The air around him seemed to shake where it came in contact with his skin; the world seemed slightly blurred and strikingly clear at random intervals.

He had recognized Potter's voice immediately; in part, he suspected, because of how often the bastard had lingered in the dark corners of his memories, mixed with broken glass and his mother's shrieks.

He had looked away immediately.

And he had  _felt_  the dull ache of Potter's eyes on him; of course Potter would glance at him, of course, of course he would recognize his hunched back and his weakness and-

_She stared into Voldemort's eyes, her master's eyes, and lied._

_To save her son._

He couldn't think. His mind seemed too slow to process the information appropriately; his mother sat there, still unmoving, and his forearm ached and hurt and  _seared_  with pain and he wasn't entirely sure if it was the scar or the Dark Mark beneath it… and Potter's voice was forceful and firm and  _Scar-face wouldn't lie_  said a stupid, childish voice in his head with more spite than acknowledgement. And  _why didn't Greengrass say anything_  and loudest of all  _Mother_ and a small tingling emotion that was battling its way up his chest in a way that was painful but not entirely unpleasant…

And then  _Cleared._

The spell broke and the room began to empty, and he was vaguely aware of the distant commotion of photographers outside and voices calling out because  _it's Potter_ , but he could only sit there, frozen on the bench as the seats around him emptied, fingernails still sinking steadily into the wood beneath him, his eyes fixed on the tall blonde witch who still wouldn't do as much as blink his way.

_She just wanted to save her son._

And he didn't know… what was he supposed to do with that information?  _Cleared_. No cells, no bars, no distant islands in a cold ocean awaited his mother, and he felt almost betrayed by the violent sense of relief that surged through him.  _She just wanted to save her son…_

Suddenly he noticed Astoria beckoning him jerkily from where she stood by her desk, barely looking at him as she moved towards Narcissa's chair. He was at her side in an instant, ignoring the brush of plum-colored robes against him as he rushed with a speed he didn't really feel, as if he was being  _imperiused_ , because he didn't remember ever making the decision to be there first, or to be the one to take his mother's hand… her _hand_... and pull her to her feet.

Astoria's fingers clamped around his right wrist like a vice, and he started at the contact. But she didn't even notice, turning and making her way through the room while pulling him along, and Narcissa with him. The briefcase bounced against her side as she pulled them forwards, so different from the perfectly calculated gait she always adopted when they were entering a courtroom, pushing through the crowd that still seemed to be competing to reach the corridor first.

Somehow they were out, and her skin was almost as cold as his mother's. They made their way through the edge of the corridor, pushing past people as they fought to get into the lift; and some must have recognized them and moved out of their way, because they managed to get in, moving upwards, and Astoria's grip was tightening against his skin, nearly making his fingers numb, silence reigning for little over a minute until the lift reached its destination.

And then she was pulling them out before the doors had even finished opening, and the Atrium was a chaos of photographers and reporters and screaming people, but none of it was pointed at them, for once, because  _Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter!_  And he was infinitely thankful for the invisibility that had suddenly been granted to them even as they moved quickly behind the crowd towards the Floo area.

"Astoria."

Belatedly, he realized that he had used her first name. She didn't seem to notice, her head jerking sideways to meet his eyes, a strangely wild concentration drawn on her face as she looked at him questioningly.

He looked pointedly at his wrist, feeling oddly calm.

She let out a small breath of understanding and slackened her grip. His blood began to flow once more, and she seemed to remember that he was there. It occurred to him that she ought to look happier, because she had won; and suddenly a storm of questions began to approach the back of his brain and he fiercely tried to ignore them.

"Go home," she said in a low voice, or at least, as low as it could be over the din of the reporters. "Right now."

He wasn't sure why, but "I'm under house-arrest," escaped him in a rush.

"I'm not going with you, and you're mad if you think I'm leaving you alone with Aurors," she replied so quickly he almost didn't register what she had said. "Just this once, I doubt anyone will notice."  _Safety first._  It was unspoken, but latent in her eyes.

"You're not coming?"

His choice of words was strange, perhaps because of the shock. He was perplexed at himself but more so at the strange kind of concern that appeared with the knowledge that she would be staying behind. She let go of his wrist and handed him a handful of Floo Powder, her eyes still swimming with hardly-contained thoughts; he felt that if he focused enough, he could watch them speeding through her mind.

"No," she said breathlessly, and reached out to push him towards the fire with contradicting gentleness. "I need to find out what just happened."

He stepped into the fire, his mother tall and rigid beside him, and could still feel his heart hammering at his throat, painful relief surging through his veins, and he wondered if his mother could feel his hand shaking.

"You won," he said, even as he dropped the handful of powder into the fire and voiced his destination.

He caught her words even as the world spun in a whirl around them.

_Not yet._

 


	13. Chapter 13

The cold, empty house felt eerily silent after the clamor that had surrounded them at the Ministry. Time seemed to have slowed down considerably after their hurried rush through the frantic crowds, and it may have taken Draco a bit over a minute to entirely let go of his mother's hand as they stood only a step away from the fireplace which had died down to a low shimmer, almost extinguished by the echoing silence that stretched out to the high ceiling.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, because it felt odd to just have them hanging at his sides; _hands behind your back, Draco,_ Father used to snap before they received guests in that very room, when it had been furnished with more than just broken glass and memories.

His wrist was still tingling oddly from where Astoria had held it in her iron grip, and he told himself that it was because she had, perhaps, effectively cut the blood off from his hand in the frenzy. He was surprised to realize that his pulse was still a regular beat, and that his head was not spinning, even though recent events should have left him in complete shock.

Instead, he found himself staring at his mother with more nonchalance than he had thought himself capable of.

His mind felt as if it had prepared a list of matters that had to be considered in the aftermath of the trial. He could almost see it, small points listed in careful letters of black ink, separated in an orderly fashion so as to not overwhelm him. There was too much to think about, and he was not capable of thinking of it all at once.

So, after regarding his mother's silent expression for a moment, he seized her elbow and pulled her towards the hallway, because there was no way in hell that he was going to sit down to mull over the last hour's events –events that involved his mother being cleared of all charges, Astoria's startling intensity, and Merlin forbid… _Potter_ – without having a proper cup of tea first. Even if said tea was the House-Elf's _rubbish tea_ , as Greengrass put it.

At least the bitter taste of it would be familiar enough to dispel the surreal cloud he was living in.

On second thought, he reflected sourly as Potter's face swam unbidden before his eyes, perhaps something a bit stronger was in order.

But the grip he had on Narcissa's elbow as he steered her through the corridors to the ever-familiar, dull sitting room, might have been a bit gentler than it had been in the past.

…

By the time she made her way back to Malfoy Manor the sun had begun its descent behind the clouds, and the stuffy heat, so unusual for the season, had receded somewhat. Still, Astoria found herself with her cloak folded over her arm rather than draped around her shoulders on her walk from the Apparition Point to the wide doors of the Manor.

She was half-expecting the Aurors to remark on her rather shameless disregard for Law Enforcement earlier; her surreptitious removal of the Malfoys from the Ministry could not have gone unnoticed, and though she suspected Weasley wouldn't be likely to deliver more than a few stern words, she was still reluctant to relent. She didn't know how to put into words the uneasy feeling that stirred in her stomach when she saw the way one of the Aurors eyed Draco. She hadn't been entirely truthful when she had told him she doubted anyone would notice their absence: _they_ , Buchanan and Smith, would most certainly notice.

Smith must have remained in the Ministry to deal with the remaining protesters, but Buchanan threw her a look of barely concealed distrust. She ignored him. While half the Aurors in the past had all been in Dumbledore's pocket, at least they had been trustworthy and somewhat professional. The Ministry's training process for Aurors evidently hadn't served to clear out the obvious defects in its personnel; not that she could blame them, really. They were so severely understaffed that anyone would have to do.

A faint voice in her head told her off for being so dismissive of the Aurors. After all, they were the Malfoys' only hope of security, something that had been decidedly lax lately given the state of the Wizarding World. Dennis Creevey seemed to be leading some sort of anti-Death Eater movement that had gotten severely out of hand, crossing the boundaries of law and straying dangerously towards targeted violence.

So she nodded towards Buchanan with a respect which, she hoped, didn't give away the derision that she felt. His dark eyes watched her with something akin to suspicion on his round face as she let herself inside.

Ollie appeared almost immediately.

"Miss Greengrass is most welcome," said the Elf, its squeaky voice sounding out of place in the gloomy hall. Astoria shivered slightly and reached for the cloak that was draped over her arm, moving to cover her shoulders. The Elf eyed her worriedly. "Oh no, Miss shouldn't concern herself, the sitting room is quite warm, yes."

She nodded stiffly, the air invasively attempting to penetrate her very bones. While Abraxas Malfoy was long dead and buried, the Manor stunningly captured the essence of his spirit; unchanging and vast, sharp corners and icy passages, unwelcoming and _always_ regal. It was as if the house itself breathed the Malfoy family motto; even the dusty nature of the corridors seemed powerless to take away from the royal aura that penetrated its very walls… a feeling that commanded instant respect.

Maybe the Elf felt it, because it kept its head low as it quickly shuffled through the hallway towards the sitting room. Astoria hadn't asked why Draco and his mother lived in such a distant wing of the building, but she suspected it had something to do with the dark, strained expression that appeared in Draco's eyes whenever she had seen him near the drawing room.

The sitting room was dimly lit, as usual, and its only occupant was Narcissa, sitting near the fire as always. It was hard to force a greeting out of her mouth towards a figure so apparently inanimate.

"Master Draco is not here," said Ollie nervously, eyes even wider than usual as they stared up at her.

Astoria pursed her lips and tried not to feel the same simmering panic she could recognize in the House-Elf's expression. The scene was much too similar to the one of the day before, when the distraught creature had all but dragged her to the sitting room to heal its broken, bleeding master. "It's all right," she said evenly. "I think I know where he is."

By the time she reached the ballroom, she had already wrapped her cloak around her; the drafty, abandoned rooms were icy cold in contrast to the warm world she had left outside. The lights lit up around her as she went, but somehow the darkness never did truly dissipate, only crawled back towards the corners, where it lingered, watching.

Draco Malfoy was sitting with his back against the bar, a glass half-filled with amber liquid held by the tips of his fingers as he looked towards the smudged windows, looking unusually small and pale under the vast ceiling.

Well, he was in a better state than she had expected him to be, that was for sure.

He said nothing as she approached him and set her briefcase on the table, eyeing the open buttons at the collar of his shirt skeptically as she crossed her arms beneath the thick fabric of her cloak. Her legs, however, remained chilled as she crossed them after taking a seat.

"You should cast a warming spell on the house."

Draco shrugged dismissively. "It's not cold."

"Not for you, maybe," she retorted, and bit back the rest of her sentence. After all, he was under house-arrest and couldn't possibly know the difference in temperature. "I'd cast it myself if the building didn't have so many wards."

"Armand Malfoy didn't like people interfering with the environment."

" _Armand Malfoy_ must have owned a set of particularly thick woolen stockings."

A laugh escaped him, tumbling through his lips like an uncontrollable burst of energy that startled her so much it was all she could do to keep her expression unchanged. She couldn't quite help the curve of her lips, though, and she held his gaze for a short moment before he sobered, his eyes straying away from hers.

She thought she saw a ghost of his father's cold, courteous mannerisms when he turned and offered her a drink with the same aloof deference that used to be the main theme of Pureblood parties. She shook her head.

His expression was dark, again.

Turning abruptly on the stool, she faced him, her legs crossed at the ankles over the low rung of the barstool. He kept his eyes fixed away from her, probably on purpose.

"I couldn't get in contact with Potter."

His expression soured instantly, and he took a sip from his glass with a look that made her doubt he didn't think his drink disgusting. "So?"

She ignored his scathing tone. " _So,_ I'm going to keep trying. There are still five days left."

"Trying?"

She glared at the point between his eye and his hairline, because he kept his gaze carefully averted. "I'm not stupid, Draco."

How many times had she told him that since they had met? Or was it just the underlying theme of every conversation they had?

His jaw clenched, and he suddenly turned towards her, eyes dark and his expression scorching. He set the glass down on the bar and leaned towards her, his knees nearly hitting hers as they faced each other.

"You won, Greengrass. Mother was cleared. You can stop now. Go home."

"I'm defending both cases, Draco," she replied coldly.

"We had a deal."

"You think that just because this case went in our favor, I'm going to give up on the other one?"

" _We had a deal_ ," he growled, and she could see his knuckles whitening against the dark wood of the bar out of the corner of her eye.

"Yes, we had a deal where you _oh-so-graciously_ deigned me with some level of cooperation to get your mother out of Azkaban, even though you're too stubborn to do anything to help yourself," she said, enunciating her words with unconcealed scorn. "No, you think it's much better to just sabotage yourself by keeping information from me because you're too bloody _proud_."

His grey eyes were dark and wide open at her words, and she could feel the hard wood of the bar digging against her own fist as she leaned forwards on the stool. His breath escaped in low bursts of heat through his teeth, roughly scraping her chin in their proximity.

"You think this is _pride?_ " he rasped, eyes burning. "You think I'm _proud_ of the fucked-up life I'm living-"

"You're scared of giving names to negotiate with the Council on your behalf because you don't want to pick a side. I get that; you're scared. That's fear. But _this,_ Draco?" she raised a finger pointed at his chest, and the blazing fire in her eyes came close to overpowering his. "This refusal to admit the genuinely honorable –hell, even _slightly creditable_ – acts you did during the War –which I _know_ you did, I know that I know you well enough to have some level of understanding when it comes to your character– out of some bizarre feeling that you're undeserving, is a flat-out _lie_. The truth, Draco, is that you don't want anybody to save you because you resent the feeling of being saved –yes, even if the person saving you is yourself. And that, Draco, _is pride_."

The air hung heavy between them, sizzling with electric heat, and she could see every single one of the subtle tremors in the muscles of his expression.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, but it shook with wrath. "Who the fuck are you to talk to me about pride, Astoria? The only reason you have this fucking job is because you're too proud to do what Daddy wants." His voice rose slightly, his breath sharp against her skin. "The only reason you're still on this case is because you're too goddamn proud to admit when you're out of your depth-"

"You think all I care about here is my career?"

Something about the way she said it made him stop. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest and suddenly the words that she had wanted to let loose before him ever since all of this had begun, every time he had put up resistance, came tumbling out.

"I could make ten times the amount of galleons I'm earning right now if I had just taken a job as an assistant barrister, as every single person I've encountered in the Ministry has told me _repeatedly_. But I didn't, because the prospect of running at the heels of people like Rivers or Macmillan, supporting cases I don't believe in, repulses me; and yes, maybe there was pride involved in the beginning, but right now it is honestly one thousand times more humiliating to stand in front of hundreds of people –not to mention countless articles by the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ – waiting for me to crash and burn with no more confidence in my own case than they have. And believe me, nothing sickens or embarrasses me more than to know that the reason for why your mother is not currently in Azkaban has absolutely _nothing_ to do with all the effort I've put into her case: it was a lucky instant in which Potter glanced at a newspaper during his holidays and realized that the trial was today. I could have done _nothing_ , and she still would have been cleared. And right now I have the intention of contacting Potter _again_ , so that he can save us both by testifying in your favor; and believe me, I'm not _thrilled_ to have Potter save my case any more than you are," she stopped, and hated the rawness of her words and the burning heat around her eyes. "But I'm going to do it anyway. Because this isn't about me, or my pride, even though I wish I could have been the one to think of Potter first and attribute the victory to my own ability. So suck it up, Draco, because I'm putting everything I am on the line here to get you out of prison and I'm going to do it whether you want me to or not."

He held her gaze for one more second after she fell silent, and then suddenly looked away. He moved back to the position he had been in when she had first arrived, his movements harsh. His hands were fists at his sides while his elbows leaned against the bar and his expression could have scorched the air of the ballroom.

She didn't move.

Astoria was vaguely aware of the fact that he hadn't protested against her assumption that Potter had information that could prove valuable to his case. She felt a strange, shaky triumph at the thought, but it was mostly suppressed by an unexpected, and heavily instinctual urge to cry.

It was all just too much.

Her fingernails were inadvertently skimming the edge of the bunched up cloth of his shirt that clung to his elbows. She swiftly moved her hand back, suddenly aware of their proximity.

The silence stretched out for ages.

Finally–

"You're pretty fiery today," he bit out.

"Yeah, well, it makes up for your morbidly cold house."

And for the second time, she heard the sudden, swift exhalation of air as a short, silent laugh escaped him.

He reached into his pocket after a second with surprising serenity. Then he handed her something.

It was his wand.

Astoria held it in her hand, speechless; the Hawthorne wood felt impossibly light in her hand… too light for something that was so important.

Draco turned to look at her and the fire in his eyes was gone, only calm grey remaining. "Use it to cast the warming spell," he said shortly, nodding towards the wand. "The atmospheric wards only let Malfoy wands through."

A question arose in her, but she quelled it, and spoke the incantation instead.

…

She stopped at the doorway of the sitting room one last time before she left, leaning against the door frame and looking at the silent woman who sat beside the fire.

The House-Elf was nowhere to be seen, and somehow the heat of the fire created a space that was nearly warm and comforting. For the first time, Astoria wasn't completely taken aback by Narcissa. Maybe she had gotten used to it.

"I have to say, I might have misjudged you," Astoria said softly, but loud enough for the other woman to hear. The words felt uncomfortable against her tongue, especially at the prospect of receiving no reply, but she forced them out anyway. "I'm glad you actually deserved to stay out of prison."

She sighed and tapped her fingers lightly against the wood of the door frame, feeling her briefcase and cloak weighing down on her arm.

"I hope you still…" she trailed off, and wondered how the words were being processed by the clearly disturbed mind of the silent ivory figure with reflected fire flickering in her empty eyes. "I hope you still feel the same way about him."

There was so much more that should be said, but it wasn't within her right to voice it. Nothing she had said in the past had helped and nothing she said now could possibly help. She closed her mouth, lips pressing together, and readjusted her cloak on the crook of her arm before making her way out of the Manor.

…

_Dear Miss Greengrass,_

_Thank you for your letter. Mr. Potter has long supported the Ministry in its endeavors to impart justice rightfully in the wake of the War, and extends his continued encouragement to all those who are giving their time and effort to ensure that no more injustice is suffered by innocent witches and wizards because of the prejudices which sadly still survive in the Wizarding World._

_Unfortunately, however, Mr. Potter is not available for any enquiries or interviews of any sort. He is currently taking a much-needed holiday from the daily affairs of Ministry and press, to ensure his own health and enjoy time with his friends and family after the hardships they suffered. Nevertheless, on his behalf, I can safely say that he applauds your strong sense of justice and wishes you all the best on this enterprise upon which you have embarked, sure that the right cause shall prevail._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Most sincerely,_

_Amanda Brocklehurst_  
Secretary-Aide to Harry Potter  
Auror Office 

Astoria heaved a sigh and leaned back on her bed, half of her body still under the protection of the heavy blanket. The owl had been waiting just outside her window when she woke up, tapping on the glass with its beak in between rounds of preening.

She had expected such a reply, but hadn't been able to help the sinking feeling she had gotten when she opened the envelope. She had spent most of her time after she had left the Ministry the day before trying to contact Potter, and had written both him and his office, sending the most persistent owls she could find, after she had given up on tracking his path out of the Ministry. He had, according to the articles she was already seeing on the headlines of the _Daily Prophet –_ it had been lying in wait on her windowsill when she had opened it to get the letter _–_ , disapparated almost instantly as soon as he had left the Atrium. Of course, he was probably an expert at avoiding being followed, and Merlin knew where he had gone… rumor had it that he was in Australia, and for all Astoria's fierce determination to find him, she wasn't about to travel to a continent she knew nothing about to try and find the Wizarding World's savior, whom she suspected was most likely spending most of his time in the Muggle world… he would be impossible to find.

No one in Diagon Alley seemed to have seen him recently, so she had discarded the idea that he had stayed overnight or had plans to visit anyone in London any time soon. It also wasn't very likely that he had any plans to interrupt his holidays to pay a visit to anyone at Hogwarts, but she had sent an owl to Hannah, the kind barmaid from _The Three Broomsticks_ ,anyway. She had received the reply seconds after having arrived at her flat the evening before, confirming the fact that Harry Potter hadn't set foot there, and that Hannah didn't think it was very likely to happen, either… still, Hannah hoped she would have luck finding him if it was for an interview.

She sank back into her pillow and ran her hands through her disheveled hair, the letter lying on her chest. It was another cold morning, and she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Amanda Brocklehurst – _Ridiculous name_ , she could already hear her mother's high-strung voice saying in her head– had done a wonderful job at writing a perfectly polite yet completely dismissive letter… it was probably the standard letter she sent to everyone who inquired after Potter. It was probably what had gotten her hired; humorous accounts still circulated in the Ministry about Potter's complete reluctance to hire any sort of official secretary or assistant to help him deal with his newfound, official responsibilities. Rumor had it that it had taken a sort of intervention by his friends and colleagues, led by Hermione Granger, to convince him to hire someone to work as a filter for the storm of letters that had almost drowned him in his cubicle every morning.

That story usually made her smile a bit at Potter's naivety, but at the moment all she could feel was frustration at Amanda Brocklehurst and her beautiful purple cursive that was a work of magic in itself. She turned and let the parchment fall from her body and off the bed onto the floor, glaring at it as it lay against the floorboards.

With another sigh, this time one of resignation, she reached sideways and pulled the newspaper off her bedside table.

She skimmed the headlines, which were predictable as always, a picture of Potter emerging from the courtroom plastered on the front page under the title POTTER SUPPORTS MALFOY: NARCISSA CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES. There were smaller ones, too, more sensationalized, and as she went through the rest of it she was quick to spot the more tabloid-worthy columns, but that wasn't surprising. She was just thankful that Potter's emergence had kept her own face out of the _Prophet_ … well, mostly. On page four, there was a small picture of her, though it was the same one they had used in the past.

And then, just before the Quidditch section…

THOMAS TAKES OVER SCRIMGEOUR INVESTIGATION

_Dean Thomas, notorious for his participation in the rebel organization Dumbledore's Army during the War and his subsequent successful arrests of Death Eaters who initially escaped Auror scrutiny, has now been announced as the new head of the investigation regarding the murder of previous Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour on the 1st of August, 1997._

_"It was really out of luck that the discrepancies in previous reports regarding the murder were discovered," said Thomas, looking grim. "And I'm very grateful to Marvin Lawrence for bringing this matter to public attention, and to Ethan Proudfoot for taking such swift steps in order to secure this case. We are now completely sure that there was at least one more wizard present at the Ministry at the time of the crime, who engaged in and is directly responsible for the brutal torture and murder of Minister Scrimgeour." He went on to confirm that he is "completely sure that we will round up this criminal in no time."_

_Thomas is well-trusted among the magical community after the many investigations he has conducted successfully, especially the case of Bog the Goblin, which has already earned him multiple job offers within the Goblin Liason Office. Still, he ensured us, he is "reluctant to take up another role when Law Enforcement is still such a pressing issue." And the Wizarding World surely has much to gain from his presence in the Auror Office; the confidence placed in him to reveal the Death Eater that has so far lurked in the shadows is most certainly not misplaced._

Astoria sat up suddenly, the newspaper falling onto her lap. She had forgotten about the article she had read on Longbottom's desk when she had gone to Hogwarts; where had she left it?

Pushing off the covers and swinging her feet onto the ground, she left her bed and made her way out of her small bedroom and into the living room area, which was just as small. The cold floor left her feet and legs feeling numb under her nightgown, but she ignored the sensation and instead lifted up a messy pile of books on one corner of the couch to reveal a slightly wrinkled issue from earlier that week… the one Longbottom had given her after she had spotted the interesting article.

Of course she had forgotten to read it. She mentally berated herself for her carelessness as she carried it back with her to bed, folding her legs underneath her and pulling the blanket back over the lower half of her body as she compared both articles and read them more thoroughly.

She really _had_ been careless.


	14. Chapter 14

Draco's morning probably qualified as the dullest morning he had had in a long time; with all his concern related to the fate of his mother having dissipated, and letters detailing the Fluxweed situation – read and re-read until the corners were crumpled and the parchment faded– tucked under a nearby flowerpot and the firm understanding that there was nothing he could do about it, there was really nothing he could occupy his mind with. The thought of indulging in more alcohol already gave him a headache, and the sitting room held absolutely no appeal… Merlin knew he had spent enough time in it already.

He had stayed under the covers for over an hour after he had already awoken, falling into a fitful sleep once in a while with full knowledge that he was only prolonging discomfort by stubbornly refusing to leave the warm embrace of his blankets. He was entangled in his sheets in a way that he didn't remember being for a long time; he had spent most of the nights over the past years thrown over the covers with complete disregard for propriety, collapsing out of sheer drunken exhaustion. Awakening in this way, then, with the covers pulled up to his chest and sunlight filtering through the slits in the curtains, felt unsettlingly like the mornings he had spent during the innocence of his early teenage years, in those weeks of the Summer holidays when his only concerns had been whether or not he could persuade Father to get him tickets to the next Wimbourne Wasps match and what ridiculously complex recipe he could order Dobby to make for him.

He had dragged himself out of bed only when Ollie arrived, setting down a breakfast tray on his bedside table and going through the process of pulling the curtains open and making the room look more awake. Even the Elf had seemed a bit more chipper, muttering to itself as it removed his pile of dirty clothes and arranged the things he had left strewn over his desk. Draco hadn't had much of an urge to silence Ollie and instead indulged in the taste of sausage, bacon and poached eggs with a relish he hadn't felt in a while.

Later, however, pacing around his bedroom after an admittedly relaxing shower, he was unable to find anything that captured his interest. The books in his bookshelf, varying from childhood books like _Loony Nonby vs. Cornish Pixie_ and  _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to books he had taken an interest to in later years –  _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_  brought back interesting memories, as well as  _Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live,_  which his Father had enforced as obligatory reading after the particularly memorable events that had taken place during his third year at Hogwarts– were all so familiar that they bored him on sight.  _Secrets of the Darkest Art_  now made him shudder; he had read it sometime during his fifth year, unaware of the impact its contents had had on the Wizarding World, reading through its pages with perverse glee in full knowledge that his mother would be horrified if she had known. It was, however, a book housed in the Malfoy library, so they couldn't really blame him, could they?

_The Decline of Pagan Magic_  was one of the few that didn't stir up conflicting emotions, but he had already all but memorized its contents along with  _Fifteenth-Century Fiends_. No one had ever understood why he enjoyed history so much, but Father had been proud and had encouraged it; that encouragement had meant an irritating insistence on his parents' part for him to learn  _Nature's Nobility_  by heart, but he had skillfully evaded the book after reading it once: it had to be one of the dullest Draco had ever read.

He found  _Magical Moral Perspective_  accumulating dust on the floor just beneath the lowest shelf, where Ollie seemed to have missed it. He gave it a nasty kick until it disappeared from view. Perkins had given it to him in some half-hearted attempt to 'fix' him, as if being his barrister gave him the right to dictate how he ought to live.

It had been good riddance, really.

Sitting down on the end of his large bed again, he ran his hands through his hair and let out a low sigh of frustration. With his mind suddenly quiet and collected, the world now felt boring.

By the time he heard the familiar click of heels against the floor of the corridor outside, he had been listless for what felt like ages. And when Astoria Greengrass emerged, looking around the doorway, he was seized by conflicting emotions of acute embarrassment at being caught alone with a chess set in the center of his bedroom, and intense relief that there was some sort of substance being added to his day.

She seemed startled at the eagerness with which he stood up from the chair he had been sitting on, and a small smile of amusement spread on her expression.

"Glad to see me, are you?" she asked wryly, an eyebrow raised.

Draco was suddenly unsure as to why he had stood up in the first place. It was, perhaps, an instinct he had developed from years of instruction in etiquette, which the unusually peaceful day had brought to mind. He recovered his composure quickly.

"Thank Merlin you're here," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "There's nothing to do in this bloody place."

"Because you were always the king of socializing," she remarked dryly. Her eyes moved towards the scene behind him and the smile spread into a grin that bordered on laughter. "Are you playing chess with  _yourself_?"

He shot her a dirty look. "Shut up."

"Taking it hard, I see," she remarked, still grinning. "Are you going to offer me a seat or something?"

He ground his teeth lightly and was thankfully spared the hassle of conjuring a seat himself when Ollie suddenly appeared behind Astoria and did it for him. Eyeing gleaming with amusement, Astoria walked past him and sat down on one of the cushioned chairs, neatly crossing her legs and watching the pieces on the chessboard silently try to push each other out of their squares with increasing violence.

"Taking it hard?" he scoffed, and scowled as he moved to sit down as well, arms still crossed. "I'm losing my mind."

"Well," she said, sobering slightly. "You could read the news." And she reached into her purse, pulling out two newspapers which she plopped down beside the chessboard.

Draco eyed them warily as he pushed all of the chess pieces into the velvet pouch they were usually kept in, ignoring their scrambling attempts to be the last one standing. As he folded the board and set it on the low shelf beneath the table along with the pouch, he looked up at her grudgingly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Astoria leaned back in her seat, her composure annoyingly immaculate. The morning light made her look pale against her dark robes, but she looked less exhausted than usual, as if she had also had a night of surprisingly good sleep. Her eyes flickered down to the issues of the  _Prophet_  she had set down in front of him and she crossed her arms much in the same way he had had his only a moment earlier. He wondered if she was doing it on purpose.

"Check the headlines from Tuesday."

He did so slowly, and tried to stop the feelings that the title created in him from showing on his face. So, they had finally realized the missing suspect in the Scrimgeour case . He supposed one of the other Death Eaters had let a detail slip somewhere… still, it didn't mean anything.

He dropped the newspaper on the table again and looked up at her, his expression guarded. "What's in the other one?"

"Page twelve announces Dean Thomas as head of the investigation."

Draco made a face and stretched his legs out beside the table, leaning back in his seat nonchalantly. "He should have stuck to goblin translation. What are you trying to say?"

Astoria held his gaze and said nothing. He fought the urge to fidget and kept his mask of nonchalance firmly rooted in his expression.

But there was something clearly unperturbed about the way she was sitting on the chair, like she was  _comfortable_  and  _relaxed_ , something he hadn't seen in her in a while.

He looked away and calmly toyed with a loose string that hung from the velvet coating of the armrest of his seat. He wasn't going to say anything, whether she suspected the truth or not; she should have expected that already.

Suddenly, Ollie reappeared near the doorway with a loud  _crack_. Draco let his sight drift lazily up to the elf, and then raised an eyebrow.

"Sir, a letter," said the Elf, and there was something about the way its legs quivered that caused the curiosity to show on his face, because it seemed to find it necessary to add, in lieu of his silence, "From Master Malfoy, Sir."

His jaw clenched instinctively and he straightened in his seat, not looking at Astoria as he snatched the letter out of the Elf's long, grubby fingers and tore the envelop open, hardly noticing when Ollie hastily disappeared. Astoria was still as a statue as he examined the contents quickly.

His father's handwriting had gotten decidedly shaky in the past two years, but it was still the most refined cursive he had ever seen, even when it lacked Lucius' signature ink –black and threaded with a thin line of silver– and was written on coarse, yellowish paper that no Malfoy would have ever dared to use in any form of correspondence.

_Son,_

_I am pleased to hear that your mother has been cleared of all charges. Nevertheless, keep your eyes peeled –the Ministry is not any more inclined towards mercy now than it was before Potter testified; indeed, Potter's sudden change of heart is decidedly suspicious… I wonder what he expects to gain from supporting us._

_The Aurors have allowed me this letter; 'recent improvements to the system' they say. We shall see how it works out in the future, but I may contact you every month or so. It would be best if you arranged a visit; it is of the essence that I be aware of all matters pertaining to the family._

_Remember what I have taught you, Draco._

_Lucius Malfoy_

He always did sign his letters with his full name, as if it was of absolute necessity to remind Draco of his ancestry.

At least, so far, Astoria wasn't insisting on talking about the Potter thing; the last thing he wanted to talk about was the speckled git and his  _heroics_. He fought off a wave of frustration; of course his father would suspect Potter had plans to blackmail them somehow… it was what Lucius himself would have done, given the opportunity. But Draco wasn't stupid; he may have hated Potter, but he had spent six years in school with him and was well aware that  _anything_  the idiot did was out of some sort of self-righteous sense of supposed integrity, regardless of the stupidity involved.

Draco actually might have preferred it if Potter blackmailed him, really.

He had yet to tell his father about Mulpepper. He wasn't entirely sure why he hated the idea of telling him, but there was something about it that made him instantly uneasy. Still, he had a distinct impression that his father may have noticed that there was more happening than Draco let on. Or maybe he was just, as usual, frantic at the knowledge that he was no longer in control of the administration of family matters.

What his father meant by the last line of the letter, however, was very clear:  _don't pick a side_. Perhaps the news Astoria had discovered had reached Lucius as well, and he had also connected the dots. Draco's jaw ached.

Astoria was watching him, and he met her eyes for a brief second after he looked up from the letter. Then, folding it crisply, he tossed it and the empty envelope beneath the table.

"Do you think I'd be allowed to see my father?" he asked.

"I'm sure it could be arranged," she replied. "There are exceptions to house arrest, and I don't think going to visit Azkaban would be deemed a breach of the rules… I'll look into it, if you want."

He nodded shortly, and leaned back in his seat, looking up at the roof where the dusty chandelier seemed to float –Ollie had never gotten around to cleaning it ever since he had reacted angrily at the sight of the Elf dusting it– its shining golden color stifled by a thin coat of dirt. "Don't make it soon," he said. "I'd rather put it off for as long as possible."

Astoria didn't do much more than nod, and he was almost thankful for it. But the newspapers still lay draped over the small table between them, their headlines screaming potential revelations at him.

"I was wondering if you could show me your library."

Frowning, he stared at her for a moment before speaking slowly. "Why?"

"Because," she explained, and the focus drifted from the screaming headlines to the air between them. "I have a feeling your library has more information on certain subjects than even the Ministry does."

It was probably true, he mused, as he led her down the long, dim corridors, the golden light seeming useless in the windowless spaces; while most of Malfoy Manor had been brutally purged of its valuables, the one thing it had retained was its vast collection of books. Maybe it was the fact that they could potentially hold knowledge of Dark Magic, or maybe it was merely a general lack of interest towards literacy, but Draco had found it impossible to sell even a single volume of the family books… much less those stored in the large, mostly sealed-up room at the very center of the third floor.

As a child, he hadn't really explored it as much as he probably should have –despite his interest in history, he usually preferred badgering his mother with requests for the latest broomstick rather than a visit to Flourish and Blotts, and the books just sort of  _appeared_  on his birthday, or on chilly Christmas mornings – and he suspected his father hadn't paid it that many visits, either. It was really just a very large, dusty collection of books that were falling apart; the silent legacy of past Malfoy masters who had once had an interest in collecting knowledge along with gold.

The vast library which now belonged to the Ministry of Magic, he knew, had gone through a profound purging under the direction of Barberus Bragge in 1271, in an attempt to destroy all recorded knowledge of the Dark Arts; this had involved all manner of raids, and the destruction of more books than perhaps truly fit such criteria. But the Malfoys in those days must have been very clever about protecting their property, placing significant amounts of gold in the right hands, because not a single book had been lost. Of course, not all the protective enchantments had held, and there were books within the library that had all but disappeared entirely, but there were still many that remained almost intact from the time they had entered the Manor.

"What are you looking for?" he asked Astoria, turning to look at her as he stopped in front of the wide double doors, pressing a hand to the smooth wood.

"It's just an issue that caught my interest," she said, and he could tell that she was being vague on purpose. "It's not exactly work-related."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why should I give you access to my library, then, if it's just for something that  _caught your interest_?"

Astoria stepped closer, looking perfectly calm as she leaned against the doorframe, as if the musty, dark aura of the corridor didn't faze her. "Because you're bored," she said, her lips curving slightly. "And exploring an ancient library is much more interesting than sitting in your room playing chess against yourself."

He made a face, but couldn't help the grin that threatened to spread from her face to his. She looked so pale and slender against the dark wallpaper, her head tilted slightly into the doorframe with more grace than he had ever thought was  _possible_ , and he had to force himself to push the doors open and step into the library, leaving her to follow behind him.

"I didn't think you'd know about it," he said, his voice sounding suddenly strange, as if it didn't belong to him, swallowed up by the vast room.

"Most people forget about the libraries," Astoria said quietly, her tone echoing his discomfort at the strange world they had just stepped into. "But all old families have one."

And then the room seemed to notice them, and the torches on the walls lit up one after the other, spreading from where Draco stood to the rest of the large, circular room, and illuminating the tall bookshelves that disappeared into the shadows of the dome-like ceiling, which he remembered from his childhood but didn't dare illumine at the moment: he would rather stay in the almost intimate embrace of the shadows than stare up into the vastness of the strange, twisted paintings. It was like a cathedral enclosed in a house, its enchantments ancient and nearly undetectable except for the strange heaviness in the air.

The books themselves rose up in pillar-like bookshelves around the room, small tables and chairs dotted here and there, inexplicably smooth and clean; perhaps Ollie did wander in here now and then, cleaning the abandoned room out of respect for whatever spirits still remained, lurking within the pages of the thick, faded volumes.

Astoria had drawn closer, maybe unconsciously so, and her shoulder was almost brushing his as she looked around with wide eyes. "I didn't expect it to be this big," she breathed, as if the books around them could hear her. "I mean –I imagined it would be much greater than my family's collection, but… this… ours doesn't even  _compare_."

"It's been ours since before the Malfoys were Malfoys," he said, echoing the words he distantly remembered someone saying... was it his mother, or is grandfather? "But somewhere along the way we stopped adding to it. I suppose it wouldn't be wise to have all its contents exposed… Merlin knows what's in here. I used to sneak in sometimes, during the holidays, just to read up things to scare the first years with." He smirked at the memory.

"It's a big place to be in alone."

He nodded, and said nothing, because she was right. It was a frightening place to be alone in, only in the company of one's own demons.

She brushed past him and he followed soon after, watching her as she ran a careful finger over the edge of one of the bookshelves, looking up at the tall pillar, her eyes roaming the faded titles. "There's powerful magic here," she murmured.

"It's old."

"Very old."

He followed her through the series of pillars, watching her, strangely entertained by the sight of her exploring the vast gleaming dark floors, the sound of her high-heeled shoes strangely muffled –perhaps it was magic, or perhaps he was just imagining it– and her back straight and graceful as she looked around her with undisguised interest.

Finally, she turned to look at him as he approached her, her blue eyes gleaming in the fiery light. "You have a very beautiful house, Draco."

She was looking for books on Magical Ancestry, which certainly took him by surprise, but he followed her around as she picked books off shelves, flicking her wand here and there until she had a rather impressive stack floating at her side. He had expected to be bored quickly, playing the oblivious host to an enterprise he didn't understand, but she was surprisingly talkative as she examined the pages of the large volumes, sometimes using her wand instead of her fingers to peel the pages apart in order to prevent them from turning to dust in her hands. They settled down at a small table beside one of the larger pillars, directly beneath the bright blaze of a torch, his legs extended before him and propped on a nearby chair as she sat, flicking her wand with care at the book before her and speaking in a low voice that was only for him to hear.

"There's a note here that says this is one of the only two copies of this book left in the world," she remarked.

Draco was leafing through a thin book of twisted mythological tales which he knew twelve-year-old-Draco would have loved to get his hands on. "Where's the other one?"

"It doesn't say," she replied. "But it's probably at Hogwarts; most likely in the restricted section. I never did find out if Hogwarts survived the purge or not… Binns didn't really mention it."

"It's not like anyone really paid attention to Binns, anyway," Draco snorted.

"True," she smirked.

"And I'm guessing none of the Headmasters would have wanted the Ministry –or the old Council, or whatever– to get wind of the fact that Hogwarts kept so many illegal books. Even now, I don't think they would take too kindly to that information."

"Sadly, I agree," she said grimly. Then, looking up, she gestured towards a book that was on the low table behind Draco with a nod, her wand still poised in midair, holding a leaf upright in the air. Not all the books had fit on their table, and she had deposited half of the stack just nearby. "Can you pass me the thick one?"

He turned his head towards where she was pointing, and then with a sigh, removed his feet from the chair and stood up, abandoning his book and going to remove the book from the stack.

When he handed it to her, she was staring at him with a peculiar look on her face.

"What?" he said, a bit more roughly than he intended.

"Why don't you ever use your wand?"

Automatically, his jaw clenched shut, his arms stiffening at his sides. Frozen where he stood, he was suddenly unable to look at her or look away from her, feeling bile stirring in his stomach as a torrent of memories and thoughts that he had so far managed to avoid, at least that day, pounded on the doors to his mind, demanding entry.

He could already hear his father's sneer:  _You're no better than a Muggle._ And the aghast, horrified expression on his mother's face, if she could still see him…. He had always been skilled with his wand, always, always until the War ended and his school lay in shambles at his feet and he became suddenly, stunningly,  _violently_  aware of what the thin stick of wood was able to do to people, to  _himself_ , what it really, truly meant to have  _power_ …

He blanched, as if she had struck him, and she still sat with her wand in the air, impossibly calm and concentrated as he stepped back and sank onto his seat, eyes unfocused, mind  _unraveled_ …

"It doesn't matter."

Astoria's eyes were bright blue laced with silver and gold, and the same power he feared wielding with his hands seemed to permeate her voice when she spoke, holding his gaze as if she  _knew_  him.

And he breathed again.

When he finally found himself, alive and still sitting stiffly on the chair, his book a sharp pressure between the back of the seat and his own, he blinked and found her still carefully leafing through the ancient tome, now cross-checking some tidbit of information with the other book which was splayed open and seemed to require less care, since she was following its words with her index finger pressed to the page.

"I don't understand you," he remarked when he was able to speak again. His legs were stretched out in front of him once more, but he leaned forwards against the small table between them and watched the flickering torch light reflected off the thin strands of her dark hair, his hands splayed on the table only a few inches from the large books. "How the  _hell_  are you related to Daphne Greengrass?"

She smirked, withdrawing her wand and releasing the spell that had held the pages up. The book closed itself and moved sideways to the edge of the table, where it remained still, just out of her reach. She leaned closer to table while she pulled the other book nearer to her. "You know, insulting my sister isn't really a good way to get in my good graces."

"It makes you smile," he said, without really knowing why those words escaped him.

He was suddenly glaringly aware of the way her fingers were skimming his, just in the center of the small table. They had strayed past the edge of the large book and neared his hands, and the warmth he could feel as the air scraped the minuscule space between them did strange things to his skin. She was staring at him with surprise, her face slightly tilted as if she was trying to understand the reasoning behind what he had said, her lips parted slightly, impossibly near to his face… certainly nearer than he had ever intended for them to be.

He drew back, still acutely feeling the sharp tingle in his fingertips, but dismissing it as he pulled out the book from behind him. But he couldn't focus on the pages, its twisted illustrations now devoid of meaning. He wasn't sure if she was still looking at him, but the warmth of her blue eyes felt scorching.

The sound of turning pages resumed, and he leaned back in his seat. His eyes were drawn to the large round clock which hung just over the heavy double doors of the library.

"It's almost lunchtime," he noted.

Astoria looked up from the book , the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Are you offering me lunch?"

"Are you staying?"

…

Astoria knocked three times and waited.

The door swung open and revealed a surprised Bill Weasley dressed in casual dark robes that looked rather inappropriate for a desk job in the Ministry of Magic. The long fang earring he no longer carried while sitting among the Wizengamot was fixed to his ear, and there was something much less refined about the way he was sitting, poring over large stacks of parchment, his quill hovering in the air beside his hand.

"Miss Greengrass," he exclaimed, taken aback at her presence. The quill fell onto the desk and lay still. He looked vaguely amused. "I wasn't aware that anyone knew I worked on Sundays."

She smiled back politely. "It's no secret you're something of a… workaholic, sir," she remarked. "No offense."

Weasley laughed. "It takes one to know one," he retorted, and rolled up the large parchment that was directly in front of him, pushing it to a side. He gestured towards the seat in front of his desk and impatiently brushed back some strands of messy long hair that had gotten in his eyes. "Take a seat. How can I help you?"

Astoria did so and folded her legs in front of her, sharply aware of the precarious ground she was treading on. It was essential that she word her request in the correct words in order to get the reply she needed. Her eyes drifted to the walls around them, the small window throwing white light onto many framed pictures on the walls, most featuring people with bright red hair, with the exception of an extremely beautiful and heavily pregnant blonde woman, whom Astoria knew to be Weasley's wife, and a young man with dark hair who seemed to blend into the redhead family so well that he was almost hard to spot… Harry Potter.

"I'm here with the intention of speaking to Bill Weasley, the individual," she said slowly, holding his gaze as she removed a heavy book from her briefcase and opened it on her lap on a page she had already marked. "Not as a member of the jury."

Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he crossed his arms, leaning onto the back of his seat and fixing her with a friendly but guarded look. "All right," he said.

"Therefore, everything we discuss in this room from this moment, with you in the role of an individual, is confidential."

"I'm aware," said Weasley tersely.

She pretended not to notice the abrupt way in which his stance had changed. "The upcoming trial of Draco Malfoy makes it absolutely essential that I have reliable witnesses who can help explain the reality of what my client's life and mindset were like during the War."

"I don't think you'll find much in manner of a positive testimony from my part," he interrupted, his expression dark. "And no matter what role I'm fulfilling at the moment, the Wizengamot will never accept a witness who is already a part of the jury-"

"I know that, sir. I have no intention of attempting calling you as a witness," she said with a quick shake of her head, rather irritated at the assumption. She quickly removed the book from her lap and gently placed it on his desk, facing him. The magical highlighter came to life and illumined a series of lines. "I know you are familiar with the Magical Standards for Wizengamot Proceedings, but bear with me."

He leaned forwards and watched the words as they lit up under her wand, following her voice. "I am, under Magical Law, allowed to approach the Minister of Magic and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, providing that the conversation make no direct connection to their roles as jurors in an ongoing case. No member of the Wizengamot is permitted to give testimony on a case while exercising their role as council member, nor are they allowed to be involved in any sort of conversation with the accused or witnesses regarding the trial."

Weasley nodded shortly.

"My conversation with you, therefore, is in the quality of a barrister to an individual who I believe has connections to a potential witness on my client's behalf."

He sighed. "I was wondering if that's what this is about. Miss Greengrass," he stated, even as she removed the book, and he crossed his fingers on the desk in front of her, his elbows pressing against the thick pile of papers on either side of him. "I can't give you any of his information."

"Mr. Weasley, I believe you are the only person who knows Harry Potter's whereabouts," Astoria said calmly, and hoped that her desperation didn't quite shine through. "It would be senseless to dismiss an excellent witness who has vital information, merely because the individual isn't aware of the current proceedings."

"It's not me being difficult, Miss Greengrass," he stated plainly. "I don't know his exact location. And I'm quite happy that I don't, too; you have no idea how often I'm being pestered with questions about him. But what I tell all those who ask me, and what I will tell you, is this: Harry Potter has served our world ever since he was one year old, and never got any reward for it. If you ask me, he has all the right to withdraw from the community and do whatever the hell he wants. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you or anyone his location, because I think his health and happiness is more important right now, when he has spent his entire life saving our world at their expense."

She returned the book to her briefcase, but didn't look away. "I understand that, sir," she said. "But I'm terribly unsatisfied with the idea of an innocent man going to prison because of one person's negligence when it comes to paying attention to the news while on holiday."

 


	15. Chapter 15

Running a hand through her hair with frustration, Astoria made her way to the lift and tried not to tap her fingers edgily against the wall that encased the button she had just pressed. In the distance, she could hear the lift moving towards her, but found no peace in the knowledge that she would soon be free to go home.

She had sent what felt like millions of letters to anyone connected to Harry Potter and seemed to have run into a wall. She tried to remind herself that they still had three days before they had to face the Wizengamot, and that there was a thick pile of papers stacked both on her bedside table and in the interior of her briefcase detailing all the possible strategies they could use, regardless of whether or not Potter appeared. But the idea of letting Potter's testimony –which she  _knew_  held valuable information despite all of Draco's attempts to convince her otherwise– go wasted, exasperated her to no end.

With a low chime, the grills of the lift slid open and she found herself staring at Ernie Macmillan as he stood leaning tiredly against the wall of the lift, his drawn expression illumined by the grayish light from the enchanted windows. He nodded primly as she stepped inside, his eyebrows slightly drawn together and his tie seeming to cling to his throat with a tighter grip than was perhaps necessary.

The grills closed with a low clang and then they were moving again, Astoria grasping the end of one of the ropes in a tight grip to avoid falling over at the fast pace at which the lift went, and Macmillan straining against the wall to keep his balance.

He cleared his throat. "How are you?"

"I'm all right," she answered. "Yourself?"

It had been unprofessional on her part to feel tension towards him because of the ongoing case, but she found Nott's surprising testimony and Macmillan's blatant nonchalance before a clear use of hearsay benefiting the prosecution hard to forget. She had recognized the same avoidance in him; after all, it must not have been easy to watch Potter, his school-time associate, oppose him so eloquently. Astoria had heard that it was sometimes difficult for friendships to survive the strain of court cases, and though generally detached enough to keep her professional life separate from her personal one, her ability to do so seemed to be diminishing rapidly.

"I'm doing well, thank you," he answered. The lift was slowing down. "Today's a busy day for everyone."

Astoria had to agree. After meeting with Bill Weasley earlier, she had been surprised to find that the hallways were full of people rushing from place to place, the Ministry almost as busy as it would be on a Monday. It seemed that not only she and Macmillan were stressed about upcoming cases. She had never seen the offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement so full of activity on a weekend.

"Greyback's facing the Council tomorrow," she said. "And I saw Thomas in his office... he seems to be pushing his people relentlessly."

"Well, he runs the risk of losing whoever the culprit is if they don't act fast. The press getting a hold of it didn't help either; I heard that he originally meant for it to be kept under wraps. But I guess it's too late now."

The lift came to a stop and she let go of the rope, her palm feeling strangely numb from the ridges it had left imprinted on her skin. Macmillan straightened where he stood and watched the golden gates slide open.

Immediately, they became aware of a faint noise that was coming from the distant end of the Atrium, and it was only when they had set foot on the dark, shining floors that Astoria suddenly understood what it was.

A chorus of voices, discordant and clamorous, was coming from the area that lay between the line of Floo entrances and the large fountain, its glittering jets of water devoid of their usual brightness before the sprawling crowd of people that had gathered there, their angry faces visible over the line of Aurors with drawn wands that held powerful grey shields between them and the pushing protesters.

Around them, confused and uncomfortable Ministry officials loitered, as if unsure whether to brave the angry crowd in order to get home their usual way, or make their way to less glamorous means of exit. And of course, the press was there, photographers having clambered up on the ledge surrounding the fountain, cameras flashing with blinding light.

There weren't nearly enough Aurors. Astoria was glad that Bill Weasley had come in to work today; a mere on-call team of Aurors wouldn't have been able to take on the job effectively if they weren't led by a competent leader. She could see his red hair among the dark-clad wizards, his wand held firmly in his grasp.

Macmillan seized her elbow just as quickly as she understood the danger they were in.

The group had caught sight of them, even though they were still quite far away. In the blink of an eye, Astoria was aware of the gazes shifting towards her and the flashing, angry signs brandished in her direction as shouts were directed at her.

"Death Eater!"

"Lock them up!"

"How many are you going to let run free?!"

And the press had seen them too; like vultures, they maneuvered their way through the multitude, dodging the frustrated Aurors and making their way towards them. Astoria could already hear the questions poised on their lips.

"Draco Malfoy was a well-known Death Eater; from a moral perspective, what difference is there between your client and Fenrir Greyback?"

"Narcissa Malfoy walks free; do you plan to request a retrial for Lucius Malfoy as well?"

She dug her teeth into her lower lip and wrenched her elbow from Macmillan's grasp. There was so much she itched to say, but the headache that was beginning to spread just beneath her forehead was an indicator enough that that would not be a good idea. She turned her head away from the screaming group, heart pounding, and followed Macmillan without so much as a break in her pace.

"You fucking whore, supporting a Malfoy! Purist scum!"

She blanched and was thankful that her face was hidden from their view. She didn't need to look at Dennis Creevey to recognize his voice; it rang loud and clear over the shouts of the onlookers. The press was snapping picture after picture, the noise drowning out her footsteps as she and Macmillan turned into a nearby corridor, more dimly lit than the Atrium. She didn't slow down, however, thankful that the lighting hid from view the angry, shameful flush that had spread on her cheeks. Her hand was shaking.

"We can take the upstairs chimneys," Macmillan said tersely from beside her. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were worried beneath his spectacles, though he refrained from looking at her or trying to lead her away again.

"Nevermind," Astoria replied. "I'll walk."

"Are you sure?"

"I could use the fresh air, believe me," she said dryly. Coming to a stop as they reached a staircase, she turned to look at him. "Enjoy your evening."

"Actually," he said, reaching into his robes and pulling out a silver pocket watch, which he checked quickly. "I'm meeting with some friends at  _The Leaky Cauldron_  in about three hours; we've booked a private booth. It's a sort of gathering we have every few months or so to catch up. You should come."

She raised her eyebrows, taken aback. "You want me to come."

He shrugged. "Why not? You know my girlfriend, Padma? She's organizing it, and we usually just bring along any friends who can come."

Momentarily at loss for words, she stared at him. There was no way in which she could bring up the hundreds of reasons for why attending such a gathering would probably not be a good idea at all without sounding petty. They were, after all, quite childish reasons, but she could think of a few more as well; mainly the fact that she seriously doubted Macmillan's friends would have feelings any different from his own regarding Draco's case… and weren't likely to be as civil about it as he was.

Creevey's impassioned little speech didn't help soothe matters, either.

"I'll think about it," she replied. "Thank you."

There wasn't much more she could say, and perhaps he sensed her discomfort because he just gave her a nod and his characteristic strained smile before disappearing up the steps to the floor above.

Astoria leaned against the wall and tried to drown out the distant noise with the sound of her own breath.

…

She fidgeted before the shabby wooden door.

It was a still night, slightly chilly but devoid of wind. Astoria had wandered the streets of Muggle London for more time than she had ever thought she would, watching the simple, oblivious people wandering the streets with their individual senses of purpose; their dreams, goals and worries lacking any magical influence. It was strange to know that to them, she was nonexistent –not only because of their assumption that creatures such as her didn't exist, but also because of the lack of any Muggle records listing her name. In the Muggle world, which was so intimately pressed against her own, she had no name or rank, no friends or enemies, no love or hatred.

It was a refreshing feeling.

But  _The Leaky Cauldron_  waited just beyond its shabby exterior, a gateway to the magical center of the country, and at the moment she couldn't bring herself to feel anything more than uncomfortable at the prospect of finding herself surrounded by her own kind.

She hadn't meant to come; not initially. The idea of meeting with a gaggle of self-righteous Hufflepuffs and their Gryffindor friends was almost as distasteful to her as meeting Creevey face to face. But besides Macmillan's offer, she could only retreat once again to her quiet, paper-filled flat, or return to her cubicle in the Ministry to face duties she had no means of fulfilling at the moment. There was no point to returning to Malfoy Manor after being there so soon before, even if Draco's company was proving to be less of an irritating obligation lately and more of an entertaining and almost comforting perk to her job.

And Macmillan had voiced his invitation so sincerely, as if he would genuinely be pleased if she attended. He had even gone so far as to nearly openly declare her his friend.

She almost hated him for being so damn nice. It would have been easier to refuse.

The Hogwarts student inside her, fiercely proud of her House, writhed with annoyance as she pushed the door open and entered the pub.

It was a Sunday night, so she was not surprised to see the place almost completely empty, only a few wizards scattered rather morosely along the bar and at some lonely tables. There was almost no point to a private booth, really.

Approaching the bar, she encountered a tired looking barman. "I'm looking for Ernie Macmillan."

He pointed towards the end of the room, where she glimpsed a half-open sliding door behind the cluster of tables.

When she reached it, she heard voices on the other side and saw the golden light from the room mingling with the shadows of a table and seats. Swallowing her discomfort, she looked inside.

Macmillan was seated on the couch against the wall, an arm draped over the shoulders of a slender dark-skinned girl who Astoria recognized as Padma Patil, who was smiling as she took a chip from the plate in the center of the table. Directly in front of them was a young man that had his back towards her, but turned at Macmillan's exclamation.

"Ah, Astoria!" Macmillan smiled at her, and it seemed a bit less strained in the casual setting. "I'm glad you could make it."

She stepped into booth with a smile. "So am I," she replied, and it felt almost deceitful to say it when she felt so apprehensive.

The man she didn't know was looking at her with an amiable smile as she took her seat beside Padma, who welcomed her with a friendly look. "Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said, shaking her hand. "I've heard about you through the paper and can't believe we've never met before."

"Hasn't everyone?" she replied wryly. "Nice to meet you."

"Can we keep our work out of this for once?" Ernie groaned.

"Fine," Justin laughed. "I suppose you're both sick of it all. And I don't blame you."

"Strange words, coming from you," said Padma with a smirk as she stood up.

"Oh, be quiet." He rolled his eyes at her, pretending to be annoyed. He turned to Astoria with an explanation. "I'm on the design team for the Prophet. Sadly, I have almost nothing to do with the actual reporters, so I can't do much to stop all the harassment you guys are receiving. Padma keeps saying I've joined the enemy."

"You're a dreadful person, Justin," Padma said teasingly, before turning to the rest of them. "Drinks, anyone?"

The men spoke up quickly, asking for Butterbeers as well as another dish of snacks. Astoria hesitatingly followed suit and ordered a Butterbeer; it wasn't something she had often after her Hogwarts years, but today didn't seem to be an ordinary day.

Even as Padma disappeared, three more people emerged, revealing themselves to be Neville Longbottom and his fiancée, Hannah. The thin, blonde woman whose arm was linked with Hannah's introduced herself as Susan Bones. Astoria suddenly understood the need for a private booth; having so many members of the group that had once called itself  _Dumbledore's Army_  together was likely to cause a stir.

"Astoria! I'm so happy to see you!" Hannah exclaimed, giving Astoria a startlingly genuine hug, which she returned rather awkwardly, though she had to admit that Hannah's presence was a surprising relief.

"You two know each other?" Ernie was staring at them. Neville grinned at Astoria and shook her hand as his fiancée released her.

"Of course we do," Hannah retorted brightly, and thankfully refrained from explaining the circumstances of their meeting. Maybe Ernie suspected, because he inquired no further, instead focusing on shaking Longbottom's hand heartily and inquiring after the state of matters at Hogwarts.

"So, how are you?" Hannah asked Astoria once all were seated, and Justin drew Susan into a spirited conversation. She lowered her voice. "And congratulations. I read the news."

"Thank you," Astoria said, a bit taken aback. "I'm well. Keeping busy, as usual, but that's just the way it is. How are you?"

"I'm wonderful," she said, a smile on her lips. "We've finally set a date for the wedding, three months from now. Neville's going to announce it to everyone tonight!"

"I'm so happy for you," Astoria said, and found that she really was. "Do you have a dress yet?"

"Not yet... Do you have any suggestions?"

Seamus Finnegan appeared about fifteen minutes later. "Butterbeer night!" he called out as he stepped in, taking a seat between Padma and Neville as he rose a bottle of the drink in question in the air. "Is it cheating if it's laced with Firewhiskey?"

They laughed and he shook hands all around, his arm stopping midair as he spotted Astoria. "Is that Greengrass?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, this is Greengrass."

Padma nudged him almost violently. "We invited her to join us," she said pointedly. "Ernie knows her from work and we wanted her to come along."

Seamus stayed frozen for another instant, his expression guarded. But then he shook her hand firmly and leaned back in his seat, starting friendly banter with Neville, who rolled his eyes at him through his own laughter. Padma made a face at Astoria that seemed to say  _don't mind him_.

She didn't.

The night drew on and she found herself inexplicably comfortable with Hannah and quite friendly with Padma, who had apparently been in Ravenclaw at school and was entrenched in a staunch battle for the restructuring of the school board at Hogwarts.

Presently, however, Seamus spoke up.

"Harry should testify against Greyback. It's the only way."

Neville shook his head, a frown disrupting his usual pleasant expression. "No, mate. Harry's got enough on his plate as is."

"I know he does, but if he has enough time to testify for a Malfoy-"

Ernie set down his glass. "We're not talking about this."

"No; all I'm saying," said Seamus, palms raised in innocence. "Is that it's absolute bollocks that Greyback should run free when someone like Stan Shunpike got taken to Azkaban back in the day. I mean, I knew that guy. An idiot, but he didn't deserve what he got. I just think we should do something about that."

"Unfortunately, the system is still built in a way that a Death Eater can still get away with it if they have enough money and find a barrister immoral enough to take them," said Susan resignedly. "We've changed, but we haven't changed much. Maybe if our Minister was more like Crouch was back in the day..."

"Crouch wasn't the epitome of moral righteousness, either," Astoria put in, surprising herself.

"I'm much more comfortable with Shacklebolt, myself," Padma put in quickly. "At least he was an Order member."

There were nods all around.

"The issue's that the Ministry's still understaffed," Seamus said with a scowl. "I spoke to Dean earlier and he's going mad in there. If we had more people working on our side it would be easier. Hell, I might even try out to be an Auror myself... More people means they can finally find a way to kick out people like Shafiq."

"I don't understand what he's playing at."

"The man's insane. Have you  _seen_  Greyback? If that monster doesn't deserve Azkaban for life I don't know who does. It's no wonder the protests are getting out of hand."

Astoria saw Ernie glance at her quickly, and wondered how the group had completely glossed over the fact that she was essentially doing the same job Shafiq was. Even Seamus, who had looked in her direction a bit more often than was strictly necessary during his angry monologue, hadn't quite gone in the passive-aggressive direction she had been expecting.

Justin was twirling a bottle cap over the table, looking worried. "Did you guys hear about Creevey?"

"Creevey's gone too far," Ernie said shortly. Padma shot him a concerned look. Astoria wondered how much she knew.

"I'm worried about him," said Neville with a sigh. "Dennis took his brother's death very hard, and I don't blame him. I just worry about what he's getting himself into. I've tried reasoning with him but he won't listen."

"I sort of get where he's coming from," Seamus said darkly.

"Come off it," Hannah said incredulously. "He took a protest to St. Mungo's and harassed Shafiq's seven-year-old daughter. You don't do that."

"Personally, I much prefer Lavender's approach," said Justin. At Astoria's blank look, he explained. "She's been leading peaceful protests, doing interviews for newspapers and collecting signatures. She's even started a movement to make Wolfsbane potion free for victims of werewolf attacks."

"I'm so proud of that girl," Padma said almost reverently.

"To Lavender," said Seamus, raising his glass in the air.

"To Lavender."

…

He was loitering around the staircase leading towards the sitting room when he heard her enter. Ollie immediately Apparated at his side.

"Yes, I know; she's here," Draco drawled, and the Elf disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. He tried not to fidget while he waited for her clicking heels to draw nearer; the sound was so welcome that he was startled at the relief it caused.

Astoria reached the bottom of the staircase even as the lights came to life, illuminating her pale face as she looked up at him, a paper bag hanging from her arm alongside her purse, her eyes gleaming in the flickering golden light.

He looked at the worn, cracked clock that hung in the room behind him.

"It's past midnight," he remarked, arms crossed over his chest.

"And you're wide awake."

"You're becoming terribly comfortable with barging in at random hours."

Maybe she could tell that he wasn't really bothered in the least, because she met his expressionless stare with a cheeky smirk. "I thought you could use some Butterbeer."

"You do realize you're not helping my already existing drinking problem," he stated.

She glared at him. "Do you want it or not?"

A smile twitched at his lips. "Is it warm?"

"It won't be for much longer."

The smile finally escaped him and he leaned back against the wall, nodding towards the corridor and watching her as she walked up the stairs, holding the paper bag carefully. Her cheeks looked oddly flushed despite her cool attitude, and Draco thought he saw her smile as he removed the bag from her arm, falling into step behind her and hearing a familiar clink of bottles within the bag.

"You're quite adventurous tonight," he remarked as she turned into the doorway of the sitting room. "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

She spun around to look at him. Behind her, the dying embers of the fire sparked red against the shadows. "You're a terrible host, Draco."

"You're acting bizarre," he shot back. "I'm just trying to make sense of this."

Astoria turned again and went to sit on the couch, drawing her wand from her robes and directing it at the fire, which roared back to life with a fierce blaze. Draco winced at the light and set the bag on a low table, standing next to the couch and watching her kick off her shoes with strange confidence.

He supposed that by now she had probably spent more time in his house than in her own, after all.

"I just came from a dinner," she explained, leaning sideways against the cushions. "Macmillan had a sort of... Butterbeer-drinking get-together. And I supposed it's probably been a while since you've had Butterbeer, so I brought you some."

Draco was suddenly grinning widely.

Astoria stared at him with alarm. "What?"

"A Hufflepuff party?" he said, voice heavy with undiluted amusement. "You went to a  _Hufflepuff party_?"

"It was  _not_  a  _Hufflepuff party_ ," she said defensively.

Draco was still grinning as he sat down on the armrest of the couch and watched her, an eyebrow raised. Her embarrassment was so palpable that he couldn't help teasing her. It was strangely refreshing. "I bet everyone there was a Hufflepuff."

"They weren't," she replied stiffly. "Patil was there; the one from Ravenclaw. And Longbottom, and-"

"You went to a party with  _Longbottom_?" he was laughing now, his eyes gleaming with genuine amusement. "You must have wished  _you_  were the one under house arrest."

"Oh, shut up."

"Vicious, are we? Want some of Ollie's tea to go with that personality?"

She glared at him, though he could tell that the remark made her laugh. He watched her take a deep breath to try and regain her dignity.

"No, honestly, Astoria," he said bemusedly, trying to hold back his laughter. "What did they do? Make friendship bracelets or something?"

She scowled at his amusement, but he knew she had to understand it. The idea of her bonding with a group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors was frankly laughable, even if she had happened to enjoy it. "We talked about things. It was actually quite pleasant."

"So what, they exchanged school time stories about all their noble, heroic acts?"

Astoria met his gaze and saw that though the smile was still dancing on his lips, his eyes had grown serious. She knew what he was thinking; it was the same thing that had kept her hesitating at the door of  _The Leaky Cauldron_  for longer than she cared to admit… the same thing that had had Seamus Finnegan wondering whether or not he should shake her hand.

"They were great," she said quietly.

He moved off of the arm of the couch and pulled the low table towards them, extracting a bottle from the bag and letting his hands absorb some heat from the still-warm Butterbeer. Astoria leaned forwards and took one for herself as well, popping the cap open and watching him as he held the bottle in his hands and didn't look at her.

He was tapping his fingers lightly against the thick glass when he asked. "Why did you come?"

"I told you. I thought you could use a Butterbeer."

His eyes slid over to her and he stared at her skeptically, a smirk still flitting over his expression. "You had a great night with people who –albeit being  _Hufflepuffs_ ," she rolled her eyes and his grin widened. "-were actually ' _great'_ , whatever that means- and you decide that the most important thing to do is to buy a Butterbeer for your client who is under house arrest and who you already have to see more than you probably want to, and come over to his house after midnight?"

There was a pause, and Astoria took a sip from her bottle. "You're working under the assumption that I don't want to see you."

He stared at her openly now, his grey eyes wider than usual as he slowly came to a realization. They were sitting side to side on the couch, her legs folded underneath her, feet hanging over the edge and an elbow pressed against the cushions behind her as she held the bottle to her lips. Draco had his elbows on his knees, feet flat against the ground, his white shirt open at the neck, lines under his eyes as if he had, yet again, not slept properly that night. She wanted to ask, but she said nothing.

He took a swig from the bottle.

"Not as good as the Butterbeer from  _The Three Broomsticks_ ," he said, finally.

"Don't push your luck."

He smiled.

…

The light outside her flat was flickering irritatingly when she got home, the hour well approaching dawn. It was late, much later than she had thought it would be when she checked the time after spending a good few hours in Draco's company, having finished their drinks and sunk down to the ground beside the couch in order to be nearer to the fire, much in the way they had been some days ago in the early morning. The conditions this time, however, had improved considerably.

Fumbling for the key in her pockets, she tried not to think too much about the way his hand had lingered dangerously near hers as they sat on the carpet together. Or the way he had insisted on following her down the steps to the ground level of the Manor, that thin smile she had learned to extract from him making an appearance even as they stood in close vicinity of the drawing room, the clouds dissipating from his eyes as he bid her goodnight.

She opened the door with a low creak and reminded herself to oil it the following day. Casting a simple  _lumos_  charm, she managed to light the lamps about the living room and lock the door behind her, dropping her purse on the floor as she fell back on the sofa, eyes closed. While in Draco's presence, she hadn't felt sleepy at all, but on her own in her own flat, she became fully aware of the insane amount of time she had spent awake that day.

She was quickly falling asleep, her shoes still on her feet and Ministry robes feeling heavy on her body, when a sudden burst of green light brought her awake with a low exclamation of fright. Her father's words, still ringing in her head since the war, about the dangers of midnight attacks should any of them not tread the thin line that would define them as supporting either side of the war carefully enough came rushing back, and she was clutching the couch with wild fear for a moment until she realized that someone was Flooing into her fireplace.

Anger and annoyance flooded her when she recognized Daphne's face floating among the flames.

"It's almost five in the morning," Astoria exclaimed. "Couldn't it wait?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Daphne answered back shakily, and Astoria bit back an annoyed comment at the sight of her sister's bloodshot eyes.

"What's going on?"

Daphne seemed to shift slightly, her voice catching in her throat as she turned to look at someone Astoria couldn't see. Finally, she spoke in a shaking voice. "We're coming in."

"You and who else?" Astoria asked, but her question was drowned out in the sound of crackling flames as two figures emerged from the fire, shaking soot off from their robes onto her floor. Daphne stood near the fireplace, looking uncomfortable in a nightgown with a satin robe tied tightly over it, her eyes downcast and looking decidedly distraught. Her hair was still carefully parted, magical enhancements still on her face, as if she had prepared for bed but been too absentminded to do it all properly.

But Pansy looked just as regal as ever in elegant robes, her pale cheeks flushed as she took a step forwards, dropping Daphne's wrist as soon as they left the flames as if she had actually been burnt. Her eyes were wild with anger and fear, and something about the situation made Astoria stay silent, suddenly unsure as to how to proceed with the situation.

"I want to testify for Draco," were the first words that came out of Pansy's mouth.

Bewildered and confused, Astoria stared at her blankly. "What?"

Pansy tossed her hair carelessly to a side; it cascaded down her shoulders as if she had been in the process of dismantling its style. "I said: I want to testify for Draco."

Astoria narrowed her eyes, glancing at Daphne, who remained with her eyes downcast. "Why?" she asked slowly.

It seemed that she had hit a nerve.

"Because  _your sister_ ," Pansy said in a low voice that shook with rage. "Is an  _idiot_  who is going to get herself locked up in Azkaban. Which really isn't at all concerning to me at this point, honestly, but she also made the mistake of putting me in her same position, and I had better do something about it." She took a deep breath, her flaming eyes meeting Astoria's. "Greengrass, if Draco wins this case, you said it would set a precedent for any other cases like his."

"I did."

"And if I were to testify on his behalf, would that… I don't know, give me points of some sort, a chance to be cleared because of my cooperation in previous cases, if I were to be arrested as well?"

Astoria's gaze moved from Pansy to Daphne, and she crossed her arms in front of her. "What's going on?"

Daphne's quivering voice spoke up. "I didn't-"

"You will  _shut up,_ you stupid cow," Pansy all but shrieked.

"Don't speak to my sister like that," Astoria said sharply.

"You don't understand what she did."

"I didn't mean to!" Daphne cried.

"Well, you should have been more careful! What's more, you should have known your own idiocy well enough to just keep your mouth shut the whole fucking time!" Pansy turned back to Astoria, shaking. "Your idiot of a sister told someone about… something we did during the war."

The air knocked out of her, Astoria turned and walked until the large sofa was situated between her and Pansy. She had always known that Daphne and Pansy, like so many other young Slytherins during the war, had been involved in dangerous things. Most of what had happened had been purposefully forgotten by those who had committed the crimes, and Astoria had been happy to imagine that her sister had never been involved in anything for as long as she didn't know what Daphne had actually done.

She didn't want to know.

"Who did you tell?" she asked, looking at her sister, who was shaking like a leaf now, though Astoria didn't know if it was from the coldness of the room or from pure fear.

Daphne's eyes moved to Pansy, who was looking at her unforgivingly.

"Well?"

Tremulously, Daphne looked at Astoria, and then at the ground. Her words were a barely intelligible jumble when she spoke them, but it was loud enough for Astoria to understand.

"Theodore Nott."


	16. Chapter 16

The sky beyond the thin curtains was already growing lighter, and Astoria bit into a biscuit she had retrieved from the cupboard in an attempt to keep her mind clear. Pansy sat directly in front of her on the arm of the sofa, her tea untouched on the low table, while Daphne sat a small distance away, a biscuit held limply between her fingers.

"It was in the month before starting Seventh Year," Pansy began tersely, her arms crossed stiffly in front of her. "I-"

"I don't want to know."

Her head ached and the crumbs from the biscuit clung stubbornly to her robes. The light that entered the room through the windows hurt her eyes, and she simultaneously wanted to rage at Pansy and Daphne for getting themselves into such a situation, and forget about the whole thing while retreating into her bedroom to sleep for as long as was humanly possible.

But there was a reason for all the books that were currently piled around in her living room, and the knowledge that they were all running out of time was so sharp in her brain that it was impossible to ignore. She brushed the crumbs off of her lap and continued, her voice cold before Pansy's startled look.

"I don't know if you expected to have to give me your full confession. But I don't want it; in fact, the less I know, the better. Just  _please_  tell me it isn't nearly as bad as to warrant life imprisonment."

In the morning light, Astoria could now tell that while Pansy's robes were as expensive as ever, the glamor charms had worn off and she looked much younger, almost exactly as she had looked in their years at Hogwarts. For some reason, the idea disturbed her.

Pansy rolled her eyes with a sniff. "I'm not stupid."

" _Really_?" Astoria snapped, her gaze flitting to Daphne, who was still avoiding her gaze. "Because all of this isn't exactly a testament to your cleverness."

Pansy's eyes flashed. "Don't speak to me like that, Greengrass. Just because I came here doesn't give you the right to patronize me."

"I think I have every right-"

"No, you  _don't_." Pansy was on her feet now, looking livid. Daphne quailed in the corner, looking so unlike her usual self that Astoria couldn't help a sudden feeling of overpowering concern. But Pansy had taken a step towards her, the dark lines under her tired eyes only accentuating her anger. Astoria was suddenly reminded of their childhood years, when she had hidden every time Pansy came to visit; Pansy used to make fun of her nose. "You don't get to take my situation and turn it against me. Not all of us had the privilege of being young enough to survive this war untouched, to live our lives like we were on the heroes' side all along… you  _weren't there_. And you're a bloody hypocrite – you make your living off of people like us, people who got fucking  _trapped_ -" her voice cracked, but she masked it well in her rage. "Don't you  _dare_  patronize me, Astoria. I've gone through more hell than you could possibly imagine."

Stung, Astoria stiffened and fell silent. Part of her, hurt and self-assured, wanted to lash back at Pansy for being ungrateful and for having earned the punishment that had crept up on her. But there was an uncomfortable truth to Pansy's words; for all Astoria's aversion to the way Julien Prince had made his fortune off of the ruins of the war, she wasn't much different… she was, after all, achieving success thanks to Draco and Narcissa's misfortune, and no amount of caring about her clients or thinking about the importance of her role in terms of the future of the Wizarding World could hide that fact. She knew the reasons behind Pansy and Daphne's actions; she had explained them repeatedly to the Wizengamot in her defense of Draco. But the idea of her own sister in Draco's position hit much closer home, and she couldn't help feeling heavy resentment towards Pansy, no matter how right she was.

"All right," she said finally, forcing herself to remain calm and push back the treacherous part of herself that wanted to blame Pansy for the entire situation. "But last time you said your husband can get you out of anything, should a situation arise."

Pansy paused and sat down again, chewing on her lip. When she spoke, it was in almost a mutter. "I'd rather spare my husband the humiliation of having to bail me out of prison, thank you. He's worked too hard to keep on the Ministry's good side. I don't want to do that to him."

It occurred suddenly to Astoria that Pansy might actually harbor genuine affection towards her elderly husband; perhaps more than she had given her credit for. It was an interesting realization.

Astoria sighed. "You do realize that testifying for Draco isn't really doing anyone any favors, do you? It might have, before now, but you're saying that Theodore Nott knows about it–" at these words, Pansy glared at Daphne again. "–so your credibility could be compromised. Unless you think Nott will keep his mouth shut."

"I wouldn't be here if I thought he would."

"He hasn't said anything yet."

"That's because he's saving it to use later when he needs leverage," Pansy retorted darkly. She stood up again, arms still crossed in front of her as she paced restlessly. "Everyone knows he's going to get arrested sooner or later."

"Excuse me?"

She turned to look at Astoria incredulously. "What, you're under the impression that Theo's some sort of saint?" She snorted.

"You're saying he's involved in something?"

Pansy let out a laugh. "Oh, darling, you're in for a surprise… Theo's got more skeletons in his closet than the Malfoys have empty space in their Manor nowadays; it's only a matter of time."

"There's still a chance he'll get away with it," Daphne said in a very small voice.

"You pray he does," Pansy said scathingly in her direction. "Because if he doesn't, our names will be the first thing he spits out to the Wizengamot. It won't get him out of his sentence, probably, but it'll still do him more good than harm."

Astoria sighed and resigned herself to the inevitable ridicule with which her next words would be met, but knew that she had to say them anyway. "You could come forward with his name before he does with yours."

"Oh,  _wonderful idea_ ," Pansy sneered. "Let's all go parade our secrets in front of the Ministry so that they can throw the lot of us into Azkaban all together. Are you mad? I'd rather eat Doxy eggs than submit myself to such degradation. Plus," she added with a sigh. "There's a chance he won't get caught; this is more of a precaution."

"Yes, well, it could backfire quite spectacularly if it ends up taking away from Draco's credibility."

"It's not like we're Death Eaters."

"No, but Draco really doesn't need any more black marks on his record."

Pansy was scowling. "So what am I supposed to do, just  _sit tight_  and  _hope for the best_  while I wait to be arrested? You said it yourself: Draco needs more witnesses or he doesn't stand a chance. I've known him since we were toddlers; there's no one better."

Astoria bit back the snide retort that had been waiting on the tip of her tongue ever since Pansy had first proposed the arrangement. It was frankly disgusting how eager she was to assist Draco in his case when doing so was to her advantage. A lifelong friendship didn't seem to matter much unless it would help Pansy get out of a tight spot.

But there was no use in pointing it out. For all her unpleasant qualities, Pansy had been right when she said that Astoria was in no position to judge them; Merlin knew how Astoria would have reacted had she been in the same situation they had.

"I'd agree with you," she answered carefully. "But I can't just dismiss the fact that this could backfire severely on us. I have my client to worry about."

"You have  _your sister_  to worry about."

Daphne still sat with her eyes averted, but made no move to protest. It was hard to imagine her speaking up in court, but she would have to if she wanted to get in the Wizengamot's good graces before it was too late. Even more foreign was the idea of Daphne being locked away in prison, her beautiful hair and exquisitely done nails rendered to faded beauty with time.

Daphne would perish in Azkaban.

Turning her gaze back to Pansy, Astoria could see a slight glint of satisfaction in the other witch's eyes. Pansy knew that she had said the right thing; there was no denying the fear that the idea caused Astoria, and she was sure it had shown in her face somehow, for all her efforts to remain expressionless. Despite her complicated relationship with Daphne, there was nothing that could make Astoria wish her sister even a day spent in Azkaban.

"You know I'm right, Greengrass," Pansy said in a low voice. "I need this. Daphne needs this. Hell,  _Draco_  needs this."

But there were too many ways it could all go wrong.

…

The sun had risen high in the sky by the time Daphne made her way back home with Astoria in tow. Pansy had disapparated swiftly after understanding that she would get no immediate answer, making her disgust at the situation perfectly apparent. It had been up to Astoria to have her sister pull herself together and Floo them both to her home.

Tentatively stepping out of the fireplace into the Greengrass family's sitting room, Astoria seized Daphne's arm and quickly pulled her after her. Daphne's skin was cold and she was trembling slightly, but she cooperated well enough and was silent, for once; something that on an ordinary day might have been a relief to Astoria but now was only unsettling, given the situation at hand.

She heard her mother's voice floating down a nearby corridor and was thankfully able to duck into Daphne's bedroom with her sister in tow before an encounter took place. The last thing she needed right now was to find her mother and have to engage in a placating conversation, tolerating her mother's not-so-subtle jabs at her apparent abandonment of her family.

If only they knew the lengths it seemed she would have to go to in order to keep her sister safely settled in her comfortable life.

Daphne's door locked behind them, the curtains opening at a small, tired wave of Daphne's wand. Her large bed, decorated with powder blue covers, seemed absolutely enchanting to Astoria at the moment, sleep-deprived and anxious as she was.

"Are you all right?" she finally asked Daphne, leaning against the closed door as her sister slowly took her shoes off and sat down heavily on the bed.

"Do I  _look_  all right?" Daphne retorted without looking at her, but it came out more weak than scornful. Still, she seemed to have gathered her wits in Pansy's absence. "Pansy's a bitch."

"I never did understand why you were friends with her."

"Oh, she can be fun sometimes." Daphne groaned with frustration, hiding her face in her hands. "And she's right, she's right. I'm an idiot – I never should have said anything,  _especially_  not to Theo. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well, it's done now," Astoria said simply, because there wasn't really much more she could say. It  _had_  been a stupid thing to do. "There's nothing you can do about it now."

When her sister lowered her hands again, her eyes were red and gleaming with unshed tears. "You know," she said tremulously. "The worst part of it all is I bet you wouldn't have done the same things I did. I was stupid, I let Pansy coax me into it, and I don't even know if it was worth it in the end."

"You're alive. That's the important part."

Daphne let out a low laugh. "But is it? I can't say I benefitted much from staying alive, you know." She sniffed, seeming to examine her nails; they glittered half-heartedly. "Daddy wants you back so damn badly, it's pathetic, really. They're furious at you for leaving and doing Ministry work like you do, living like a Mudblood and all that… but I wonder if they'd be that scandalized if it'd been me. I do  _nothing_  with my life, Astoria. I'm a waste of space, and I think even my own parents realize that."

"That's not true. They love you."

"I didn't say they don't. But I'm not worth much; even if I testify, the testimony would be more of a symbol of my supposed support than an actual help. I have no sweet memories to give about Draco; he was a bully and a spoiled brat in school, and everybody knew that. At least Pansy got to spend more time with him, and has more stories. I have nothing; just a record to put the family name to shame and a great possibility of ending up in prison."

Astoria leaned her head against the door and tried to find appropriate words of comfort, but none came. Daphne was right, and there was no arguing against the truth. Unlike Pansy, who already had the prestige and riches that came from her rich husband and imposing personality, Daphne had always been one to lurk closer to the crowds and was easy to overlook. The whole situation might have been avoided completely, and the matter never come out to light, had Daphne not spoken to Nott.

The thought made her sick. For all her desire to bring the guilty to justice, she would feel perfectly comfortable burying Daphne's actions and never speaking of them again.

She took a deep breath and looked at her sister again, who sat with her hands on her lap, fingers fidgeting slightly.

"You could always testify against Nott."

"I'm not testifying against anyone."

"It seems to me the most sensible solution–"

Daphne looked at her with wide eyes. "Are you mad? I'm not involving myself in something like that. I would never accuse anyone of anything, it's too dangerous!"

"He's not going to have your hesitation."

"That's because I'm not bloody mad like he is!" She swallowed, and moved to brace her arms against the bed, rocking slightly on the spot as she spoke. "You don't know him as well as I do, Astoria. He's smart, and really likeable; I suppose that's why it was so fun to talk to him… but he's not going to stop at anything just because we were friends once."

Pushing off from the door, Astoria moved tiredly to sit down beside her sister, who looked oddly small and hunched in her spot, her golden hair falling limp around her face. "When did it happen?" Astoria finally asked.

"It was… sometime towards the end of Seventh Year," Daphne said quietly. "I… I just started talking to him. I knew what he was involved in; we all knew who was and who wasn't, and… I suppose I just didn't think about what it could mean. We weren't supposed to tell, but it happened."

"And you're sure he'll remember the conversation?"

Daphne looked up at her with glistening eyes. "It was a long conversation. It was  _a secret_. He's bound to remember."

Astoria sighed, and reached sideways to put her arm around Daphne's shoulders. Her sister moved to rest against her, and the silent admission on her part left Astoria feeling distinctly frightened at the gravity of the situation. The prospect of having to weigh her sister's safety against the success of her career was already overwhelming, and was made more so because of all the confusing variables involved. Nothing was certain.

But she understood why Daphne was afraid to speak up, if Nott had really been so involved with the Death Eaters as Pansy seemed to believe. While the doubt cast upon Nott as a witness testifying  _against_  Draco could be quite beneficial to Draco's case, openly accusing someone would put Daphne in a very uncomfortable position, especially once Nott inevitably retaliated with the truth about Daphne and Pansy's involvement in the war. It could prove to be catastrophic on all sides, and there was no guarantee that the Wizengamot would show mercy for anyone involved. The Greengrass family had managed to remain neutral during both wars, and exposing the truth for all to see would be a statement the consequences of which Daphne would inevitably have to bear the brunt of. Pureblood families all around had already shifted their allegiances to look as harmless as possible, and association with someone who could potentially accuse you of Death Eater activity was something most people tried to avoid. Even if Daphne managed to escape prison, the act of openly accusing someone went so against Pureblood culture that it could mean social isolation for her regardless. She wouldn't want to pick a side.

Astoria frowned. The concept suddenly rang disturbingly familiar.

…

"You look like you haven't slept at all," Draco said with vague amusement as she swept into his line of vision, looking a bit less well put-together than she usually did. But his initial amusement dissipated quickly when he realized that her exhaustion had to have news behind it. Indeed, the way her brow was furrowed as she reached the top of the stairs sent a current of unease through him.

"I haven't," Astoria said tensely.

"What happened?"

She had one hand on her arm, as if she was physically making an effort to hold herself together. She didn't look him in the eyes until she was directly in front of him.

"I need to talk to you," she said with forced calmness. "But – I need to go out. It's too stuffy indoors."

He resisted the urge to make a face at her tactlessness; out of the two of them, he was the one with the most right to complain about being confined indoors. But now wasn't really the moment to call her out on it, so he saved his snarky retort for later and instead jerked his head for her to follow him, making his way down the hallway towards the ballroom.

He wanted to say something as they walked there; something to make her explain to him what had happened to leave her so distressed, something to make her feel better, maybe, to calm her down, because it was unsettling to see her so anxious and to not know what had left her that way.

He had been relieved to see her. Of course, he had expected to meet with her at some point that day… it was natural because they needed to discuss the upcoming trial, and she might spend more time in the Malfoy library as usual, looking up books at random in search for information the relevance of which he didn't understand. When she wasn't in the house, he had to spend a considerable amount of effort in keeping himself busy. His mother carried out the same identical routine she had had for months, and the Elf performed the same tasks cleaning the Manor it always did. Meanwhile, he had to make n effort to not drive himself mad with his own brain, trying to find some form of entertainment to keep the toxic thoughts from consuming his mind. There were still too many ghosts lurking in the shadows of the house.

The ballroom had a large balcony on its Western end, looking out over what had once been a vast amount of white roses and hedges of deep green. His father used to enchant it to maintain a comfortable temperature despite the fresh breeze that people liked to enjoy there, and it had often been decorated with fairy lights to add to its charm. He hadn't gone there much. In parties, it was always frequented by the more irritating couples.

He had never gone at all during the day, though, and so it felt even more foreign to open the latch that locked the balcony and hear the glass doors creak as they shook off the dust, opening their way onto the smooth ledge, its iron railings curled into flowering shapes. In the light of day, it seemed like a completely different place than the one he remembered from the time when balls had been held in Malfoy Manor, the metal's rusting corners bared and dust coating the once shining floor. The area felt naked, and Draco felt suddenly uncomfortably exposed to the world.

He couldn't deny, however, that it was nice to have a better view of the world outside than he did from the dirty windows of the rest of the house.

Astoria was already casting charms to silence them from any potential eavesdroppers; particularly, Draco guessed, the already untrustworthy bastards that were the Aurors who lurked in the gardens around the house. He was thankful for her willingness to perform the spells herself; he didn't think it was the right moment to fall back into a discussion about his restraint when it came to magic.

Finally, she leaned against the railing at his side, hands clasped together tightly, and looked down with unseeing eyes. "Something has come up."

Draco said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on her face despite her not looking at him.

"Pansy Prince approached me at a ridiculous hour last night, along with my sister, and told me that they want to testify on your behalf."

He was silent for a moment, gaze still fixed on her face, his mind a whirlwind as he tried to understand what she was telling him. "And you don't think that's a good thing," he stated slowly.

"In ordinary circumstances, I would be delighted that they've decided to be so noble, but the fact is that they have a need to go down in the Ministry's books as helpful, cooperative folk in case someone lets information about them slip."

Draco scowled. He had known that Pansy and Daphne couldn't have survived the war free from guilt, but the idea of being used as an opportunity to win points didn't particularly appeal to him. "What did they do?"

"I don't know," Astoria said tersely, still not looking at him. "I don't want to know."

"It was probably just something stupid. If it was Parkinson, that's almost assured–"

"That's not the  _point_ , Draco."

He ground his teeth together. "Then what  _is_  the  _point_ , Astoria?"

"The point is, if they do testify on your behalf there's potential that you'll lose credibility if their information surfaces. You don't want unreliable witnesses in your case."

"Why should their information surface?" Draco shrugged. "Everyone's done stuff. Pansy can get away with it; she's got enough galleons to buy the right people's silence."

Now Astoria turned to look at him, her blue eyes holding his gaze in a way that instantly made him wary. "Not in this case. The person who knows about it is Theodore Nott."

He tensed immediately, squaring his shoulders and bracing his fingers against the railing. The cool air blew through their hair and Draco found himself looking down at the grounds, where peacocks had once used to roam. Of course it was Nott. It was  _always_ Nott. It was all so cleverly convoluted that Draco almost wanted to laugh at how ridiculously it all seemed to be, with everything pointing towards Nott's success and towards his own failure. Nott had even gotten to Astoria's family.

"See, what  _is_  that?"

He looked up quickly and found Astoria staring at him suspiciously.

"What is it with Nott? What do you know?"

"I don't know anything," he snapped.

"Don't lie to me," she said sharply. "You're all covering for him, pretending you don't know anything… I wonder how many others there are."

"Probably a few like us, who know what's good for them," he said through gritted teeth. "Leave it alone."

"No, I  _won't_  leave it alone. He has information that could land my sister in prison."

Draco ground his teeth, but when he turned to look at her angrily, he saw that she was shaking, her lips drawn into a thin line. The desperation was suddenly drawn so clearly on her features that he was surprised he hadn't understood her situation before she even explained it.

"So if they don't testify on my behalf, they have no leverage to potentially reduce a sentence," he said quietly.

She nodded.

"But if Nott does get arrested, he'll give up their names and my case is compromised."

She nodded again.

He frowned, straightening and looking up at the distant line of trees on the horizon beyond. "He may not get arrested."

Her knuckles were white against the black railing. "But what if he  _does_? What if he does and I have to watch my sister be taken to Azkaban because of some stupid thing she did in high school? What if I can't save her?" She faltered.

He could feel the warmth of her skin through their clothes as her arm pressed against his, her small frame shaking slightly. It was unsettling. There was a wetness to her eyes that mingled with exhaustion and left her looking pale and worn out. She really hadn't slept at all.

He closed his fingers around the railing, not quite able to help leaning in a bit closer. Her eyes flickered up to his face, and he fought to keep his words coherent despite the way in which he was suddenly very distracted. Still, his voice escaped him in little more than a whisper; it didn't really matter, they were so close that he could hear her every breath.

"Nott's testifying against me. If he's arrested, the prosecution also loses."

"Yes," she breathed. "But Macmillan's on the Ministry's side. Most of the Wizengamot will side with him if things turn out that way. I might be able to extend the trial somehow but it wouldn't change the fact that two of the main witnesses to your case will also be accused of Death Eater activity, which casts doubt on our entire defense."

"Well, I–"

"Don't," she said suddenly through gritted teeth, and she was looking at him again. Her hand moved and was suddenly twisted into his, her fingers grasping his hand tightly, soft but unrelenting. Her eyes were wide. He could feel her breath on his face. " _Don't_  say you don't care if you lose the case. You're  _not_  losing the case."

He didn't have the heart to argue. He turned his hand beneath hers and intertwined their fingers, hers slender and soft against his skin. Somewhere in his chest, his heart was pounding loudly, and he wondered suddenly at the way in which his eyes were moving down her face, the urgent manner in which she grasped his hand, the warmth of her breath…

Astoria's breath hitched and she turned away suddenly, her hand slipping out of his. His fingers fell limp against the railing and he quickly moved back, suddenly feeling cold as the breeze brushed past them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her draw in a deep breath.

"Pansy and Daphne might be all right if Nott doesn't get caught for… whatever it is he's done," she said slowly, if rather shakily. There was a light tinge of color to her cheeks that hadn't been there before, but he nearly didn't notice it; her tone was so businesslike. "You don't owe them anything. But you could also really use more witnesses. Pansy, especially, because she's known you the longest."

He snorted. "If I could go another year without seeing Parkinson, it still wouldn't be enough time."

She was probably rolling her eyes.

He drew his nail over the edge of the iron railing and bit his tongue. The truth was that, as complicated as the situation seemed to her now, it was made infinitely more difficult with the reality of his latest interactions with Nott. Nott's arrest would be bad for him whether or not Pansy and Daphne were exposed. There was a great likelihood that he would try to use the evidence planted in Malfoy Manor as part of his leverage to reduce his sentence, and he was sure that no matter how good Astoria's defense was, the Wizengamot would never allow him to escape a sentence if his home was found to be housing dark artefacts.

He wondered if the thought bothered him.

He wondered what Astoria would do if she knew.

"So, what are we going to do?" he asked her finally, turning his head to look at her. She was still standing in the same spot, seeming to have regained composure.

Her lips curved slightly into a smile that was entirely mirthless, and she turned to look at him again. "I don't know," she said simply. "I have a conflict of interests; I can't advise you on this subject. I can only let you know about the facts, and you'll have to make the decision yourself."

He stared. "That's ridiculous."

"That's how it works, Draco."

 


	17. Chapter 17

Draco leaned against the staircase banister and tried not to be sick. Astoria had finished briefing him on the situation about half an hour ago and there hadn't really been much left to say; the bright sun had left him feeling blinded when they retreated inside and it had been in a haze that he weakly said goodbye to her as she excused herself.

"I really need to rest," she had said quietly, with a calmness that convinced him it had to be fake. Her body seemed to be swaying slightly even as she fought to keep herself upright, a pale hand pressed against the wall. "I'll be back later tonight. We need to discuss strategies for Wednesday, but I honestly can't think straight right now."

He had nodded and Astoria had looked up at him as if she was about to say something; the words lingered in her eyes and he had wanted to hear her say them... to say something warning him against hurting himself; against lingering too long on the taste the lies left on his mouth when he kept covering for Nott, when he started to see no distinction between himself and Pansy and Daphne with their stupid, stupid issues that were entirely understandable, of course they were, because at least they hadn't been Death Eaters, at least they weren't in a position to call Nott out with the memory of his face clearly leering over Scrimgeour's glassy-eyed corpse; against the way his mind kept pushing him back; against the way her hand had felt around his, the way he couldn't seem to stop the tingling in his fingers when she looked at him, the strange and foreign urge that pressed insistently in his body...

She had looked away and he had wondered if she could guess any of it at all.

He was an idiot. An idiot.

He hadn't even been able to escort her to the door properly; the idea of being left alone in her wake in the entrance hall with its minuscule piles of glass and scars strewn across the air made his head pound and his stomach churn. But the sight of her disappearing down the hallway towards the towering doors, the high ceiling rising up above her, had made him feel so guilty he had thought he might just run after her.

But he didn't.

He never did, did he?

Acid swirled in his mouth and he swallowed it down with a grimace, feeling lightheaded and weak, keeping himself upright by sheer willpower. He didn't want this. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to make him choose between all the variables that were so complicated he couldn't even begin to comprehend them. It wasn't fair that Astoria had to defer to him the safety of her sister... it wasn't fair that he had to carry the weight of both Pansy and Daphne's destiny on his shoulders. As if he didn't have enough to deal with already.

He strained against the banister and managed to stand upright, blinking rapidly to dislodge the disorientation the Manor's shadows had used to blanket his mind. He was tired.

Draco's feet fell heavy on the steps. He could feel the familiar symptoms in his stomach, in his head... the voices that lingered at the edges of his consciousness were making his hands tremble; he had avoided this for days, which was a surprisingly long time. He had thought that he had seen the last of the oppressive cloud of emotions and memories when he had unwittingly carved a scar into his Dark Mark - had thought that somehow Astoria's company had managed to distract him enough to let his insanity slip away. But no, there it was again, and when he passed by the sitting room door and caught sight of his mother's quiet form in front of the fire he wanted to tear himself open somehow, inexplicably, because his head was pounding and his body was shaking and he couldn't take the way he was letting himself lose control again…

Pansy Parkinson - or Prince, whatever the hell she had decided to call herself - could go fuck herself for all he cared. He was under no illusion of the woman's motivations. Her willingness to ride the wave of his demise for her own profit stung more than he cared to admit, and the idea of yielding to her made him sick - but it was Pansy, Parkinson, the stupid pug-faced girl that had thrown toys at his head as toddlers, had run crying to him as a child when her parents fought, had giggled flirtatiously at him as a teenager, and who like everyone else he had known had caved dismally under the very real pressure of losing everything she had known in the war... only to lose, through her efforts to salvage what little she could, almost everything that had ever mattered.

Fuck Pansy. Fuck Pansy and her stupid idiotic head and the way her eyes had teared up when they were five and the way he couldn't fucking say no to her, not now- because she was too much like him, too lost, too damn frightened to know any better and he would rather see her keep her gigantic house with her gnarly millionaire of a husband than to watch another one of his own lose themselves to Azkaban.

And Daphne Greengrass: the yellow-haired, somewhat vapid girl that he vaguely remembered having a crush on at some point in his early years at Hogwarts; she had blue eyes like Astoria, didn't she? Except they weren't like Astoria's eyes at all, no… and he wanted to hate her for screwing things up and putting them both in this position, but he couldn't really, because hadn't Nott also found a way to weave himself into Draco's fate, to coax secrets out so carefully and quietly that no one noticed until it was too late? Like the idiots they were, they had spewed their secrets into his willing ears and somehow thought themselves immune to the consequences.

He found himself in his room, instinctively, though he had no desire to lie down or even sit down. His blood was still pumping violently in his veins and the pressure only increased when he caught sight of an elegant white envelope set carefully upon his bedside table, rendered almost blinding by the slightly open curtains that let through a disturbingly bright ray of sun. Out of all the days the sky had decided to be clear, this had to be the least convenient one. He wasn't sure why he was so angry at the weather.

Snatching up the letter, he found the slanted, thin quill-strokes that spelled out _Draco_ , and wasn't even surprised. He tore the expensive envelope open even though he knew exactly what it would say.

_Draco,_

_By now I'm sure Greengrass has run to you to explain the situation. I'm assuming the delay comes purely out of your innate slowness. I'm sure that – for once – you and I can have an arrangement that is_ mutually _beneficial._

_I'll be waiting for your owl._

_Pansy._

_P. S. I know things changed and we're not, well, whatever, but… Slytherins look after our own and all that, right?_

He could tell that she was trying very hard not to beg.

It was pathetic, really.

They had had a falling out sometime during sixth year – he wasn't sure at what point; he'd been preoccupied with things that mattered much more than stupid high school flings, but Pansy had somehow interpreted their tentative camaraderie as some destiny-marked romance and had picked what had to be the worst timing in the world to run the idea past him, eyelash-batting and all, _classic_ Pansy style. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her do it a million times to a million other boys she'd liked. But he admittedly might have been able to find a kinder way to reject her… and as it was, she had actually cried. _Pansy_. He hadn't seen her cry in years.

And she had hated him – understandably, maybe, but he hadn't really had the time to be bothered. Between Voldemort and Pansy, the biggest concern had been easy to identify.

Still, despite her irritating neediness and customary passive-aggressiveness, her absence had become achingly noticeable in the aftermath of the War. With everyone trying to distance themselves from him and his family, Pansy's refusal to make an appearance in his life became increasingly apparent, and though he doubted she really cared for him at all anymore, the way he had phrased his refusal –with a derisive laugh, if he remembered correctly, and the memory made him cringe now to think about it – had to have left a sting in Pansy's already fragile ego; one she had always masked so carefully in scorn.

He stuffed the letter back into its envelope and left it back in its place, turning and leaving the bedroom without looking back. He wasn't going to answer. What could he possibly say in reply?

It was ironic, after all, that she had elected to use the _Slytherins look after their own_ line, so often repeated in their school years when one wanted to silence sneaks, when their entire dilemma was born from one of their fellow Slytherins who wielded the power to ship them all off to Azkaban merely by mentioning their names.

The Manor seemed to lead him on of its own accord through winding passages until he was at his father's study again, and though the lights lit up around him and the somber air of the place his father used to inhabit daily was disturbingly palpable, he closed his eyes and stood stone still just outside the room.

He thought he could smell the blood.

And he was an idiot, really, because what sort of fool lets himself revisit the sort of places that he knows will drive him mad? But there was some sort of exquisite pleasure in finally acknowledging the demons that had been lying in wait in his head over the past few days, pushed back by sheer willpower and his refusal to cave into what had become a daily habit – it had been a while since he had felt the physical force of imaginary glass on his cheeks and heard, in the distance, the sound of Aunt Bellatrix's screams of _Crucio_ …

And somehow, acknowledging it and allowing himself to soak in the slowly overpowering desperation freed him from the effort of having to hold himself together, and made it all make so much more sense, because this was how it went, because things always got worse, more and more people would expect more and more from him and he would end up having to betray each and every last one of them, because he had no choice, because that was who Draco Malfoy _was_ … an idiot caught in something too big for him, who was too stupid to know how to react, too weak to carry it all on his shoulders.

He could, of course, accuse Nott in front of the Wizengamot – the right thing, he supposed, by the books of people like Potter who had nothing to lose –, win the case, watch Nott be marched into custody, watch Nott accuse Pansy and Daphne of collaborating with Death Eaters in whatever it was that they had done, watch doubts be cast onto the circumstances of his own case, and eventually let himself be led in chains into Azkaban along with all three of the others.

Or, he could keep his mouth shut like he should, let Pansy and Daphne testify in his favor, and either they won the case and everything worked out well, or they would reach the same outcome… it all depended on Dean Thomas' efficiency.

And it made him fucking angry, really, to know that while saying nothing at least gave them all a _chance,_ if Nott just happened to get caught it would all backfire on them.

The safest thing to do would be to keep his mouth shut and not let Pansy or Daphne testify.

But even if he did, Nott could still accuse him of harboring Dark Artifacts in the Manor, and anything Draco said would be taken as excuses.

He ground his teeth. He should have said something before Pansy and Daphne got involved – he might have saved himself the whole dilemma.

But Nott had known that he was a coward, had known that it took one hell of a lot to get a Pureblood to denounce another Pureblood, had known that family ties still clung at them with asphyxiating tightness and his and Daphne's cowardice would steer all the cards into Nott's favor…

_Never pick a side._

And he couldn't possibly ever face Astoria again if he became the direct cause for her sister's imprisonment.

Aunt Bellatrix danced somewhere in the back of his mind screaming torture curses and his own sixteen-year-old-self cowered in the corner and was eventually dragged out, struggling, shouting until he was hoarse, but Mother wasn't there and never mind that he had never had an Unforgivable Curse cast on him, not when his father was Lucius Malfoy… but Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban and _he_ was angry and _she_ had permission to do whatever she bloody pleased and Draco was an idiot, an idiot, an idiot who had smashed her first-ever glass of red wine in fifteen years and she was _angry_ …

And of course, Mulpepper grinned at him with his yellow teeth and his glazed eyes that looked unsettlingly blue, and there was Dumbledore, staring at him weakly from the end of Draco's own wand, looking like he _knew_ , like he fucking _knew_ , like he fucking _understood_ but how could he understand, how could _anyone_ understand…

How could he still be so haunted over things that had happened over four years ago?

Draco slammed his fists into the wall behind him and forced his eyes open. He was momentarily blinded by the lights of the study ahead, and was suddenly aware of the way his heart seemed to be punching large, gaping holes into his chest, while his head swum and his entire body shook… his nails were digging into the stone behind him and he wanted to have them carve more scars onto his arms just to make them _visible_ …

No.

_No._

Without really knowing from where he was gathering strength, he forced his mind back on track, banishing the haze of disfigured memories that had collected in his brain and kept trying to swallow him back into the past. He let his hands wander up his arms and fingered the barely-tangible line of his scar, though he refused to look at it. It felt good, to have more to touch than the deceptively smooth skin of where the Dark Mark was burnt onto his forearm.

He had to tell Astoria.

He _really_ didn't want to tell Astoria.

He sprung into a quick stride back towards where he had come from, and occupied himself in counting the amount of empty portraits he encountered, if nothing else, just to keep his mind focused.

…

As promised, she returned that night just as Ollie was serving dinner. He watched her idly from where he sat with a glass of water balanced on the couch's arm, his face arranged with much more serenity than he felt.

"Does Miss wish for dinner?" the Elf inquired of Astoria as she stepped into the sitting room, and she looked as if she hadn't really remembered that there was such a thing.

"I – all right."

"Slept?" he inquired, languidly picking at his mashed potatoes. Dinner hadn't been served in a proper dining table for longer than Draco cared to admit – after all, their regal-looking dining table had had to be sold at some point in his attempts to gather enough money to keep him and his mother safe and in Perkin's supposedly capable hands. Currently, dinner was served in the same place they were always in: the sitting room. And Narcissa had barely touched her plate since it had been set down in front of her. He ignored his mother.

Astoria did look much better than she had that morning; at the very least, she now walked more steadily and her eyes didn't look quite as red. She glanced at his mother for a moment and then returned her gaze to him, and the hand she had touched that morning reflexively tingled. He dismissed the feeling.

"Still not enough, but it'll have to do," she replied wryly, and made her way to the opposite end of the couch where he was sitting, taking a seat. He wondered if he should have offered it to her, as per Sacred Twenty-Eight etiquette. But she had found him passed out and bleeding on the carpet, once, so he supposed it really didn't matter anymore. "Have you given the issue any more thought?"

"Honestly, Greengrass, your sleeping patterns don't really do much for me intellectually," he drawled, his lip curling.

She glared at him. "This is serious, Draco."

He set down his fork and turned to look at her properly. "It was always serious, _Astoria_. I thought about it, and I haven't reached a conclusion. Do _you_ have anything to add?"

Astoria didn't look taken aback by his calm tone; maybe she recognized the tension that hid behind it, or maybe she was secretly relieved that he hadn't settled on a decision. Either way, she crossed her legs and opened the briefcase beside her, extracting a few sheets of parchment which she spread out on her lap, where her black robes parted slightly to reveal a simple, cream-colored dress underneath.

Her slender fingers flipped through the sheets of parchment expertly; she must have read them all a million times. He could see the black ink of her handwriting rushed over the entirety of the pages and wondered if he wanted to know what it said.

Astoria spoke as she read, her eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration. "The fact is that at the moment the greatest charge they have against you is of attempted murder. The problem is that all that took place after you were already over age, so they would have to charge you as an adult."

Draco didn't want to know how many years were customary for attempted murder.

"And coupled with the charges of conspiracy, use of Unforgivables, and what happened with Katie Bell…" she shook her head and looked up at him. "Conspiracy and Unforgivables we can easily work around; after all, even members of the Order are guilty of those, there isn't much weight to that. But what happened with Katie – especially since it's now tied to the fact that you intended to kill Dumbledore – can really cause trouble. What we need is to prove that you weren't willing and ultimately wouldn't have done it." She sighed, reaching up to brush her hair out of her face. "They might call you to explain your side of the story. If they do, that's what you need to explain."

He groaned and crossed his arms in front of him. "I thought that was the point of having witnesses… because the Council isn't going to believe anything I say anyway."

"Oh, they probably won't," Astoria replied. "But they need to hear you say it. Witnesses would support your statements, and might convince the jury that you're telling the truth."

He sighed. "Which is why you need Pansy."

She carefully rearranged the parchment on her lap. "I didn't say that."

"But it makes sense," he said with a small shrug that was much too casual for the weight of the conversation. "It's the only way. She's the only witness that's been that close to me and isn't already suspected of something–"

"Which is why it would be a real issue if it turns out that she's also a criminal," Astoria put in pointedly.

"But it gives us a chance."

"Yes," she said slowly. "But if she ends up getting arrested it puts the entire case into perspective… even Nott isn't the main witness to the prosecution; what he said, though it holds weight, is still irrelevant in the face of everything else. Macmillan didn't bring him in knowing he held that sort of information; he was just an addition to their case. We have a lot more to lose with Pansy than they do with Nott."

Except Nott was a murderer, which was something Astoria didn't know. And despite everything that Draco was, he had never actually _killed_ anyone.

The fucking bastard was all too clever. And there was still a ridiculously large chance that he would get away with all of it.

"I don't understand what you want," he said simply.

The House-Elf appeared suddenly, setting down a tray almost twice as large it was with little effort and pushing the low table Draco had just pushed away from the couch closer to Astoria so that she could reach her plate. Astoria didn't do so much as glance at it.

Instead, she stared at him somberly even as Ollie disappeared. "I want you to know all the facts before you make a decision."

" _We_ don't even know all of the facts."

She knew what he meant, and shook her head as she turned to her food with an air of resignation. The stress of dealing with the case must have left her without an appetite, and he couldn't really blame her for it. He watched her as she stared blankly at her food without seeming to see it, deep in her own thoughts. Draco felt stab of guilt somewhere in his chest; Astoria probably thought he was talking about Pansy and Daphne, instead of the secrets he was keeping from her.

Then, almost too nonchalantly, she added. "You don't read the _Prophet_ anymore, do you?"

Draco snorted. "What's in it for me to care about? I know what they're going to say anyway." When she didn't reply, his eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I don't want to cause you any more concern."

He shot her a look.

Astoria fidgeted and pushed the parchment away, leaning to take a glass of water from the table. "They added your name to a list of _Criminals Who Might Get Away With It_ ," she said, lips pursed. "The article's mainly about Greyback – he seems to be doing alarmingly well – but it doesn't help that you're being cast in the same light. You need to deliver a convincing performance."

"What, do you want me to dance and sing for the jury?" He smiled darkly. "If they want me in Azkaban, I'm going to Azkaban."

"Then don't make them want that."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, and the only sound in the room was the sound of the fire crackling. Narcissa slowly got up from her seat, silent as a ghost, and glided across the carpet and out of the sitting room. They didn't look at her; sometimes it was more comforting to pretend that she wasn't there.

Astoria looked away and focused on her meal for a moment, eating with as much elegance as one possibly could while leaning forwards towards a plate of mashed potatoes and grilled chicken. She finally gave up and placed it on her lap so that she could eat more comfortable. The image was rather amusing.

"Say what you want about my House-Elf," he remarked, glancing at his glass of water and wishing suddenly that it was wine, or at the very least something with more taste than water. "But it makes great dinners."

"At least that's salvageable," she smirked between bites.

"Malfoy cuisine was renowned in these parts, in my grandfather's day."

She was still smirking. "Probably because you live in the middle of the countryside a _long_ way away from any other inhabitants."

He made a face at her. "Well, what brings fame to the Greengrass family, then?"

She shrugged. Her fork barely scraped against the porcelain plate. "Textiles. And our good manners."

"Well, that's terribly _bland_."

"You say that, but we're doing quite well."

They finished their meal in comfortable silence, and it was a while before Draco dared to say anything; almost as if speaking might move them back into the confusion of reality. But he couldn't help it.

"What are you going to do if we lose?"

Astoria had her hands folded on her lap, her empty plate back on the table, her elbow brushing against the pile of notes she had left between them. "If we lose, I'll negotiate for them to give you five years – less, hopefully. I think I could do that. They could charge you a fine, and maybe some time of house arrest… we could negotiate a retrial in a year's time and maybe…" she trailed off.

His jaw clenched. "You've almost given up, haven't you?"

She didn't look at him. "Of course I haven't."

He wished he could believe her. But he had caught sight of her handwriting on the edge of one of the sheets of parchment, a hurried annotation she had made, clearly legible against the jumbled rush of the rest of her handwriting _._ And though he hadn't spent much time thinking about criminals apprehended after the First War, he couldn't possibly _not_ know who that man was.

_Barty Crouch Jr_

And he couldn't lie to himself and pretend that he didn't understand why she had written that name down, or ignore the similarities between his life and the one of a man he had never really spared much thought for; he couldn't pretend that he wasn't suddenly crushingly aware of the very fine line that separated his history from that of a monster.

He took a gulp from the glass of water and tried not to break the crystal with his grip, averting his eyes from the words that held the past dark years of his life neatly outlined in Astoria's black ink; he didn't need to re-read them.

Suddenly, a faint noise reached his ears from the window, and he found himself leaving the couch and moving towards the spot where the curtains parted to show the night sky behind the dirty glass. The grounds were usually silent, and whatever rustlings could be heard were usually caused by birds or other small animals that had wandered into the bushes. But this noise was foreign, and even Astoria had straightened in her place, turning towards the window with apprehension.

"What is that?" she asked.

He had just opened his mouth to answer, his muscles tensing as he heard an ominously familiar cry from the grounds of the Manor, his hand straying to grip his wand even though he knew how futile the movement was, when there was a loud, almost ear-splitting _crack_ only a few feet away from him.

He swiveled around, eyes wide, and Ollie was teetering in front of them, face contorted in distress and high pitched voice raised almost to a scream.

"Master! Master Draco!"

Astoria had nearly dropped her glass. She was standing, now, and the noise outside seemed to grow clearer – the infuriated voices of a multitude seemed to rattle the glass of the windows. Draco strode towards Ollie. "What is it?" he said sharply.

Ollie's voice was choked with panic. "The South Wing… they've set it on fire!"


	18. Chapter 18

Draco ran out the door without so much as another glance, hearing Ollie calling out after him in distress. His wand was held tightly in his clenched fist, though he wasn't really sure what he was going to do with it. Behind him, he could hear the light patter of the House-Elf's feet and Astoria's voice echoing through the hall as she ran after them.

Outside, the angry voices seemed to have receded in volume, but that didn't comfort him; a much louder noise was rising above the din: the crackling of a massive fire.

He felt Astoria's hand close around his upper arm, and whipped around. They were standing at the edge of the steps, where the stairs wound down to the Southern Wing, an area that had remained vacant for a while - ironically, it contained the rooms the Death Eaters had occupied during the War; one of said rooms being, Draco knew, the one which had housed the Dark Lord himself.

Thankfully, he had never known which one it was.

Astoria clutched at him tensely, pulling him to a stop. "Don't go down there," she said breathlessly, anxiety in her voice. "They'll kill you!"

Some distant part of him acknowledged that she was right, but he couldn't help it. For all the memories he tried to avoid that lurked within its walls, Malfoy Manor was his home; though dilapidated and ominously silent nowadays, he had run through its corridors as a child and the stories of his ancestors' exploits in those very halls had been almost omnipresent as he had grown up. He was  _not_ going to be the first Malfoy to stand idly by while his own home was burnt to the ground.

Astoria was saying something to him, but he couldn't hear her. The roar was moving closer, the stench of smoke invading his nostrils with startling suddenness. He tore his arm out of her grasp and then paused briefly, gesturing towards her.

"Stay here."

Without awaiting an answer he rushed down the steps, taking three at a time, nearly tripping over the lopsided, torn carpet at the bottom. While he had stopped to speak to Astoria, Ollie had seized the moment and was now ahead of him, not much more than a vague outline as smoke overtook them.

"Where's my mother?" he called out after the Elf.

Somehow, it heard him, and as a fast-paced current of hot air hit him and made him cough, its tremulous, squeaking voice reached him. "In her quarters, sir."

So she was safe in the opposite side of the house. That, at least, was something of a relief.

The corridor was getting progressively hotter, and then a door abruptly burst into shreds ahead of him, sharp splinters flying in all directions, a scorching wave of heat following in its wake and pushing him back against the wall. The smoke was so overpowering that Draco found himself unable to breathe for a few seconds, his eyes watering painfully. Ollie had disappeared from view. Ahead of him, the corridor had lit up with an eerie reddish orange color, and in the dark of the night, the light in itself made his eyes burn.

The landing ahead, which branched off into a small tea room and three bedrooms, as well as a door leading out to what had once been a sea of multiple flowerbeds, was in flames. Through the raging fire that licked the walls, silver wallpaper now lit into angry gold, the violet flowers that had once risen in exquisitely illustrated vines now shredded and scorched, Draco could see what little was left of the furniture of the room - old couches, mostly, along with a few low tables and old, cracked vases his mother had hated but which had to occupy some area of the house lest they inadvertently start a family feud - was being steadily licked by flames almost as tall as he was, unsalvageable even by the most skilled wizard. His wand felt like a useless twig in the face of its devouring advance, only potential fuel for the enormous furnace that had just opened up before him.

He was suddenly vividly reminded of the piles of useless object that had been stashed around the Room of Requirement, the odd relics that he had grown strangely accustomed to during his Sixth year, his only company in the terrifying loneliness of his mission. He still remembered the mixed feelings of relief and horror as he watched Crabbe set the whole room aflame, and how it had all been stifled by the disconcerting, too-horrible-to-be-true realization, only a few minutes later, that Crabbe was dead.

He hadn't really thought about that night much.

He hadn't seen Goyle in years.

A smash nearby brought him back to his senses. He was clutching the front of his robes to his nose, but the air was becoming so thick with smoke that it did little to alleviate his senses. He fumbled around and found the doors that were on either side of him which looked dark and foreign in the strange lighting, and pushed open the one on his left before really thinking of what he might find. All he knew was that the voices and the noise of smashing glass were close at hand, and their presence amid the roaring fire filled him with a sort of rage that he couldn't even articulate properly.

The window of what he now saw was a large bedroom lay shattered over the side of a large bed and glass was scattered all over the floor and windowsill. The gaping hole was lined with sharp blades of cracked glass, and he could make out figures outside, illuminated by the eerie orange light as they prepared to clamber into the house, dark cloth pulled over their faces, bright eyes distracted by the noise and activity inside.

Draco didn't hesitate.

He had never really been the impulsive type, but something about the situation, with uncontrollable fire rushing through his house and angry people tearing down the walls of the rooms he had lived and thrived in during his childhood, filled him with a foreign sort of energy that rent apart what little of his tranquility that was left and had kept him together in the face of all the scorn and rage he had been on the receiving end of in the outside world. Without really thinking, he found himself running towards the window and propelling himself over the windowsill at the invaders, his wand raised in the air: if not to cast a spell then at least to cause as much bodily harm as was possible in his position.

It was by sheer luck that the sharp edges of glass that were still attached to the frame didn't pierce him, and that the two dark figures that had been preparing to climb inside were taken by surprise, masked and enraged as they seemed to be. He tumbled out of the window with his fists pounding at them, his weight and the speed of his fall pushing them down until they were sprawling on the cold earth outside, brambles catching in Draco's shoes and scratching at his face with a dull earthy smell. But soon the wizards recovered from the initial shock, and he found himself seized from behind by one of them, the other still pinned beneath his weight as he struggled to fend off Draco's relentless blows.

His wand had rolled out of his grasp as they had made impact, and the man behind him was trying to reach for his own with his foot as they struggled. Draco tried to tear free from his assailant even as the man underneath him went limp from a well-aimed punch at the jaw, but he was grabbed by the neck in a chokehold. He reached up to try and pound the bony arms that imprisoned him, acutely aware that if the wizard succeeded in seizing his wand the fight would be over very quickly.

Somehow, he managed to shake free, the man falling back against the wall of the house, forced to move in order to avoid bashing himself against the sharp glass. Draco took in a gasping breath, head still reeling but feeling oddly calm as he surveyed his surroundings.

Over the now dry and unearthed weeds that had once been the Malfoy prized flowers, a group of about ten people stood, three of which had their wands extended towards the house, emitting large flames. It brought him tentative relief to recognize that they weren't, in fact, Unquenchable Fire, a fear he hadn't really realized he had had until he noticed the difference between these well-calculated spurts of flames and the way Crabbe's wand had been failing wildly in the Room of Requirement. Still, the relief was short-lived as he realized the gravity of the situation.

For all the wards placed around the Manor, whichever spells they had cast and were casting had managed to penetrate them easily, and the walls of the South Wing were already on the verge of crumbling inwards, their power weakened from exposure to the fire. The realization made Draco's heart pound even more violently in his chest, and he pushed himself off from the ground, gravel digging into the palms of his hands, just as a body collided painfully with his own.

He was thrown off-balance, and someone pushed him to the ground, placing a well-aimed punch on his nose.

Eyes swimming with tears of pain, but mind startlingly clear, he grappled with the person and managed to hold their arms away from him before they could continue to attack him. It took him a moment to recognize Dennis Creevey's face, but when he did, he didn't have much time to react; Creevey's backup had arrived, and he found himself being dragged across the earth, dry twigs catching painfully in his robes, a spell hitting him with full force –it felt all too familiar– and binding his arms and legs with invisible rope.

He didn't recognize the others that surrounded Creevey, who was standing over him now, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the burning building, even as the roar of flames rose in a crescendo. He seemed many years younger than Draco; probably still in his school years, or at any rate, not very well past them.

But the boy hardly looked like a child. Though shorter than Draco, he towered over him as he ordered his cronies to pull their prisoner up with his back against a nearby tree; the flames behind him were so hot that they made Draco's eyes water if he stared in their direction for too long. The scarf Creevey had had pulled over his own face was limp against his chest, his clothes clearly Muggle, and there was a sort of intensity to his stare that was incredibly disturbing: like the reflection of the fire wasn't only a reflection, but the reality of the hungry, wounded beast that hid within.

Another fist collided with Draco's jaw, and his mind buzzed with the impact, threatening to render him unconscious.

"Stop," Creevey told whoever was at Draco's right, one arm extended in a rushed motion. His voice was low but trembling with seemingly barely contained rage. Behind him, the three continued to egg the flames on, invading the house. "I don't want him unconscious. I want him to watch."

Heavy boots collided with Draco's ribs instead, and he spat out a mouthful of blood and what he suspected might be dirt from his fall, refusing to look at his other assailants. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm destroying your  _Manor_ , Malfoy," Creevey answered, a wild leer on his lips. "You're going to watch it burn to the ground."

"I don't even know you," Draco said hoarsely. "Leave my house alone."

The gravity of the situation suddenly hit him full force, cutting through the strange calm that had supported him through the fight. His mother was sleeping somewhere in the house, Astoria was still waiting in that corridor, and there was no one to help him or save them. Some of the group had branched off and were throwing what appeared to be rocks at the house, out of pure glee. More kicks were applied to his legs, making his shins thrum painfully and his teeth dig into his tongue to avoid gasping at the agonizing sensation.

There was cursing all around him, and insults being tossed at him with varying volume. They seemed to enjoy watching him suffer, but deferred the worst of the torture to Creevey, who seemed to be their leader. They all had their wands in their hands, but seemed reluctant to use them –Draco knew, from experience, that it was much harder to use magic to hurt someone than it was to do it with your own fists.

Dumbledore's searing blue eyes shot through his mind, and he blinked to try and dislodge them.

It wasn't really the pain of their blows that affected him; he had grown used to that. But after everything he had lost already, the idea of losing the Manor to the hands of furious kids seemed even more ghastly than a life spent in Azkaban.

A shower of sparks and loud cries from behind Creevey jolted him out of his thoughts, and even Creevey turned, startled, to see what was happening.

The fire had chewed its way through the sitting room, but judging from the windows and the holes in the crumbling walls, it had been unable to progress much further into the corridor, although one of the rooms was already mostly lost. The fire was struggling against some unseen force, and even as Draco watched, it was attacked by two large jets of water which nearly managed to stifle the flames in one of the corners of the room.

Draco searched the dark shadows behind the flames, barely visible through the large hole where the doors leading outside had once been. The orange light threw a large silhouette against the crumbling wall on the opposite side, and even as a new wave of water appeared, stopping the crawling fire from advancing more into the bedroom on its right, Draco was able to make out the flattened head and large ears of his House-Elf, arms raised to the heavens as it wielded the heavy magic with which it was invested.

Creevey cursed, even as one of the fire-starters turned to him in askance. "It's a bloody House-Elf!"

Angrily, Creevey turned to Draco and pointed at him with his wand. "Call off the Elf."

Draco snorted, tasting blood even as he spoke. "Or what?"

Creevey came closer and knelt in front of him. The water had left the building surrounded in an even heavier cloud of smoke, and it was making his throat hurt, his voice coming out hoarse and cracked from effort. The wand dug into the space between Draco's ribs, and he tried not to make his struggling too obvious as he strained against the curse that kept him at Creevey's mercy.

"Do you know what they did to my brother?"

Draco's wrists were bleeding from the friction of the curse. The feeling was all too familiar. He recalled, vaguely, the stupid hyperactive kid the eldest Creevey had been; they had never interacted much. The boy had probably been scared of him.

He had heard that he had died during the Battle at Hogwarts, having sneaked in to take part even though he was underage. Stupid, and hyperactive. Why anyone would decide to stay in such a brutal battle, Draco had no idea. The stupid Gryffindor 'spirit' had proved the death of him.

But of course, Dennis Creevey likely thought Draco had had something to do with it.

Of course he did.

"I had nothing to do with that," he snarled. "I'd go ask in Azkaban, I'm sure they'd be happy to help. Leave me alone."

"It wasn't a bloody question, asshole," Dennis growled through clenched teeth. His face was close to Draco's, his breath stinking of smoke. His expression was barely visible against the flaming background. "I'll tell you what they did to Colin: Rowle  _Icendio'd_  him. They burnt my brother to death. They let him burn until there wasn't much left by which to recognize him. The Order had to set a glamour charm when they found him; he was unrecognizable. My brother was sixteen."

"I don't care about your stupid brother," Draco spat, more angry than anything else. He didn't need a lecture on what Death Eaters did. He had watched Nagini eat plenty of Muggleborns alive on his own dining table, and seen Bellatrix string up family members and  _Imperius_  them to torture each other. "I had nothing to do with any of that."

" _You're a Death Eater_. You're a Death Eater, and you're trying to escape the consequences of what you did –of what  _your people did_  –while my brother is  _dead_!"

Draco's retort and Creevey's likely consecutive attack were interrupted by a sudden noise at their side. A woman broke through the bushes, her long hair whipping around her face, eyes wide with terror as she paused at the edge of the clearing and took in the chaos before her. There was silence for a moment, and even Creevey looked taken aback at her appearance.

Then, she turned and caught sight of them.

"Dennis?!" she cried, and rushed to them. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Creevey straightened and stepped away from Draco, though he kept his wand pointed in that direction. As she stared at him in horror, Draco saw that the woman's face was lined with multiple scars that tore rather disturbingly through her features. He shuddered to think how bad the wounds might have been before they were healed by who must have been a very skilled Healer.

The others, now joined by the two Draco had managed to overpower by the window, gathered behind Creevey as the woman stared at them, aghast. Draco stifled a grunt of pain as one of them took the opportunity to punch him in the ribs.

"You shouldn't have come, Lavender."

"Did you do all this? What in Merlin's name are you doing… to  _Malfoy_? This is  _insane_ , Dennis, you're going to get yourself arrested!"

Everything happened very quickly. Creevey made a gesture and the people behind him moved swiftly, so quickly that Lavender barely had time to react before her arms were pinned behind her, not violently but unrelentingly.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked, straining against their force and trying to kick the wizards away from her. The combination of her scars and the ferocious revulsion in her expression made her almost frightful to watch.

"Did you tell anyone about this?" Creevey demanded, though he evidently didn't want to come off as too aggressive to her. There was reluctance to his tone, but the hand that held his wand towards Draco was perfectly steady.

Lavender gaped at him, before her eyes were drawn back to the house on fire. Ollie's power was beginning to weaken, the flames spreading faster than the Elf could extinguish them.

"No," she said in a low, horrified voice, as if she was only just realizing the implications. "Of course I didn't. I - I didn't think you were going to do this –"

And just like that, Creevey was no longer concerned with her shock. Two of his friends dragged her off until she was too far for Draco to see her face; he could only make out her faint screams of anguished protest in the distance.

Creevey returned to block his line of vision, and was smiling darkly in a way that made Draco disregard the burning pain of his limbs in favor of trying his utmost to escape. The boy was smaller than he was, though stocky, and if he could only release himself from his binds...

There was a loud crack and Ollie's wall of magic seemed to give way. The Elf must have had to Disapparate in order to avoid being overwhelmed. Hopefully, that meant it would have enough time to find his mother and rush her to safety, as was its duty.

Creevey was in his face again, teeth bared in a snarl. "You're going to see what it felt like to be Colin. You're going to experience what you did to Colin."

"I didn't do anything to your fucking brother," Draco spat, though his heart was pounding painfully in his chest, the sound of the burning rooms almost deafening. "You're bloody mad and–"

He was silenced by a violent punch that hit him square in the nose, jolting his head back against the hard bark of the tree behind him. His vision swam and he felt blood trickle down his chin as Creevey punched him again. It was all so ludicrously  _Muggle-born_  of him, to not even use his wand. He watched his own blood drip off of the boy's knuckles.

The others crowded around him were watching in satisfaction, evidently pleased by how events were turning out. He felt a few more sharp digs at his side and against his legs, half-hearted kicks aimed with slightly less spite; Creevey seemed to have dibs on torturing him, and certainly seemed to have found a personal reason to want to do so. But the eyes of his companions glittered in a way that made it clear to Draco that they were only waiting for their turn.  _Death Eater, murderer, …deserves to die…_ the very words that echoed in his own mind were being repeated to him on all sides.

"Shut. The fuck. Up," Creevey shouted, even as the exterior wall of the sitting room finally gave way and came crashing down with a loud noise and a cloud of dust.

And suddenly, Draco was aware of how the fire had already spread through the corridors, creeping up to the stairs where he knew old tapestries still hung from the walls and were bound to catch fire swiftly, to surround anyone in the vicinity before they could escape...

Astoria.

The realization seemed to knock the breath out of him, and he lost all awareness of the way his wrists and ankles were likely to be bleeding from the pressure of his struggling against his bonds. Creevey's yelling was muted, and all he could do was watch the flames as they crept closer to where he knew Astoria was, egged on by the magic of a yelling crowd.

There was a dull impact that Draco felt rather than heard, and Creevey stumbled down to his knees, straining unexpectedly against an invisible force, a wild yell on his lips. It was a yell Draco didn't hear, however, his mind bent on the way fire danced in the windows of the house, leading up the steps, setting fire to the carpet and the curtains and the old, moldy tapestries, charring the walls his ancestors had constructed and which currently held Astoria but were bound to give way around her.

He was vaguely aware of the grip around him loosening, and hands grasped his shoulders; he shook them off violently, and in doing so discovered that he was gradually breaking free from the curse that had kept him at Creevey's mercy. He fell back against the tree as unfamiliar shapes crouched in front of him, and felt some heavy liquid dripping into his eye, making him wince. He reached up with a shaking hand to push it out of his eye and discovered painfully that it was blood from a gash over his eyebrow.

He reached around for his wand and didn't find it. The shapes still had a hold on his shoulders, but he couldn't make out their faces; things were being yelled, and the amount of people in the clearing had nearly tripled –Creevey had fallen out of his line of vision, but the others had disappeared, surrounded by the new group of wizards. Had even more come to witness the destruction of the Manor? Did they intend to draw out his torture even longer?

His head was pounding, slowly catching up to the violence it had sustained, but he sprang into action as soon as he felt the last of the curse leave his body. It didn't matter that his entire frame was shaking so violently that for a moment he thought he might fall in the same place, nor was he deterred by the steady flow of blood that trickled down his face and neck. He pushed past the arms that reached out to grasp him, his force taking the tall figures by surprise and causing them to fall back before chasing after him with yells. It was too late; he had already reached the building, and though the fire had been greatly mitigated –he was caught in a spray of water, for a moment, but didn't think much of it– he could still feel the heat through the soles of his shoes as he stepped over burning pieces of wood and made his way through the charred South Wing of the Manor.

The smoke was unbelievable, and he was soon clutching his robes to his mouth again, ducking to avoid the worst of it as he crossed through the corridors at a mad pace, retracing his earlier footsteps and hoping that he wouldn't get lost between the strangely unrecognizable burnt walls. As he ran, the sound of crackling fire diminished, and he was enveloped in a hazy world of smoke and shadows that shifted with his every movement.

He nearly knocked into the pillar beside what was left of the stairs, and found himself clambering up over the teetering slabs of wood and stone that were still being licked by dying flames here and there, his hand stinging as it came in contact with the still-hot iron of the banister. He pulled his hand away quickly and tried to find a balance, calling out through choked lungs for Astoria –had she left on time? Or had the fire, pushed unnaturally by magic, surrounded her before she could escape it?

But his mouth was full of smoke and ashes and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, falling to his shivering knees on the still-hot floor that coated his clothes with soot and nearly burned its way through the fabric. He could barely see.

He struggled to pull himself up, leaning against the wall and biting down on his already cut lip as the wooden frame of a nearby window burned his hand. He was going blindly from memory, trying to recall the days when he used to chase Dobby through that very corridor, pelting toy Bludgers and trying not to break the glass of any of the windows or his father would punish him.

With a shaking hand, his face pressed into the curve of his shoulder as he tried not to inhale any more of the toxic air, he somehow managed to push the window open, soot and slime giving way to fresh air which had never felt quite as refreshing as it did now, dispersing the smoke and leaving him shaking weakly against the wall, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins, watering eyes wide as he looked around for Astoria, looking to find her kneeling on the ground like he was, or worse, fallen…

He studied the piles of rubble and burnt material that lined the corridor and watched wooden door frames glitter like burning charcoal and somehow, with a shudder of confusing fear and relief, he didn't find her.

He sighed, and then coughed so hard he felt his throat might burst.

Looking up, he could see the rest of the burnt corridor as it merged with an equally charred landing passage that led into the rest of the house; the rooms on either side of it didn't seem to have escaped the fire, though the damage significantly lessened as the passage curved away from his line of sight. The rest of the house was free from harm, he was sure, but Astoria may have very easily escaped to one of the rooms, thinking she could ward off the fire, only to find herself overpowered…

_Why did he ever tell her to stay?_

He straightened and stumbled as he rushed towards the nearest of the rooms, face pressed into his robes and his bleeding, burnt hand as he tried to find any sign of her while hoping that he wouldn't–

A loud crash made him straighten and then there she was, coming from the opposite end of the house with a wild look in her eyes, her expression horrified but free from any harm.

She tumbled into his arms and he was holding her close, on hand on her back and the other in her hair, his face buried in her dark locks as he felt the living warmth of her, her scent, free from the heaviness of smoke, and relished in the abruptly draining realization that she was safe.

She pulled back after a few seconds, looking up at his eyes with lips parted in dismay. When she reached up, he saw that her hands were lined with soot, but unharmed – there were no burns on her clothes or on her skin, he was sure of it, and he didn't have the heart to remove his hand from her back, close as they were, feeling himself losing all power to move backwards, whether from exhaustion or fascination at how refreshing it was to gaze into her blue eyes as she reached up and gently placed her cool fingers on his cheek, lining the bruises that were beginning to spread there with such concern that he thought his heart might burst at the sight of it-

There was a noise to their left and he instinctively pulled her closer, his hand curling into a fist –in the absence of his wand, what little was left of his strength would have to do– but out of a cloud of dust and smoke, a tall, lanky figure emerged, wand drawn but held loosely in hand as the wizard took in his surroundings with a scowl.

Astoria instinctively stepped back, Draco's hand leaving her back and falling limp at his side.

Of all the ways Draco had hoped to meet Ronald Weasley again after the War, this was possibly the worst. Still, he couldn't bring himself to really care as his mind spun with particular violence. He suddenly slumped forwards, and Astoria had to step back towards him and catch his weight as he fell against her, unable to hold himself up any longer.

"First day back, and the first thing I've got to do is save  _Malfoy_ ," he heard Weasley growl as his weight was shifted and he felt himself reel into unconsciousness. "Bloody  _typical_."


	19. Chapter 19

When Draco came to, he was momentarily blinded by the whiteness of his surroundings.

He was, he eventually realized, as he blinked blearily at the ceiling and tentatively felt the characteristic softness of well-worn sheets, in a bed in St. Mungo's, and judging by the low murmur of noise around him of which he was suddenly becoming aware, he was not alone.

Trying to sit up, he held back a weary groan at the dull aching all around his body. He didn't seem to have been in the bed long; the sheets still felt stiff and cold against him, and though he couldn't feel any blood on his face as he pressed a hand to his pounding head, his robes were still caked with blood, dirt, and dried leaves from the scuffle in the yard. He couldn't have been out for that long.

His gaze rose and encountered a scowling Ron Weasley leaning against a nearby pillar, framed by the screens that had been pulled around the area to separate Draco from the other patients in the room. In earlier years, no Malfoy would have been caught dead sharing a public ward with unknown witches and wizards, but nothing could be done about it now. Old Grandmother Druella would have been appalled, aghast at the possibility of being contaminated with impure blood from some 'muggleborn scum'.

He wondered sullenly, through the loud pounding on the walls of his skull, if Weasley was just here to appreciate the irony of his situation.

Their gazes met, Draco's grey eyes narrowed with pain and dislike, and Weasley's blue ones cool but equally unfriendly. The fool looked healthier than when Draco had last seen him; eyes less sunken and skin distinctly tan... he had likely returned from some pleasant retirement to a beach in the Caribbean or somewhere equally holiday-like. He had his arms crossed over his Auror robes, and didn't make any move to change his expression.

"Here to jeer at me, are you?" Draco said, his intended casual drawl sounding more like a pained groan as it left his mouth, hoarse and scratchy against his dry throat.

"Actually, this is my job," Weasley replied, watching with barely hidden satisfaction as Draco struggled to sit upright against the white pillows. "Not that you'd understand the concept."

"Where's my-" he was beset by a sudden onslaught of coughing, his lungs relinquishing the last of the smoke. "Where's Greengrass?"

"Talking to Healer Goldstein. I was left here to guard you."

Draco snorted. "As if I'd have the strength to do anything stupid."

"I think they mean to guard you from any possible attackers, what with all the enemies you've got," Weasley corrected him, his lip curled. "Though I never put stupidity past you. But you should appreciate the fact that I'm the one standing between you and everyone who wants to kill you."

"Still have the hero complex, I see."

"Still an ungrateful, cowardly brat, I see," Weasley shot back mockingly. "How many times have I had to save your sorry arse, Malfoy? What is this, the hundredth time?"

Draco's throat hurt too much, and he cursed that he had to be so vulnerable in front of Weasley, out of all people. He hadn't been to St. Mungo's since he was thirteen, and it was bizarre to find himself so incapacitated in a public setting. The screens must have a very light silencing charm on them, because though he could tell that the hall his bed was set in was quite vast, the noises of what he supposed must be multiple patients with their own healers and families sounded vague and muted in the background, a low buzz rather than an annoying commotion. The bedside table was empty except for an issue of the  _Daily Prophet_  which he chose to ignore, and a vase of the ugliest flowers Draco had ever had the misfortune of setting his eyes upon.

He could really use a drink of water.

But there was something about Ron Weasley that always antagonized him and made him defensive to the point of irrationality, and so the pain in his body and the scratchiness of his throat did nothing to stop him from trying to cause as much harm as possible with what little means he had left.

"How does it feel to walk around without Potter's leash around your neck, Weasley? Is it a pleasant surprise or are you going to have to learn how to live without getting dog treats every time you succeed at not tripping over your own feet?"

Whereas Weasley might have riled up violently a few years ago at such words, that was no longer the case. He did, however, go rather red in the ears, and Draco figured that minimal satisfaction would have to do. He wasn't exactly in the best state for this kind of confrontation, and he told himself that Weasley probably wasn't either, since it was probably really late into the night.

The idiot had just opened his mouth to retort when the screen at the foot of Draco's bed slid open smoothly and Astoria stepped in briskly, followed by a rather heavy-set witch with greying hair and Healer's robes who instantly focused on Draco and handed him a steaming mug of something that smelled sickly sweet.

"For the pain," she said matter-of-factly, looking him up and down, lips pursed at the sight of his ruined robes. "Quick healing spells, coupled with trauma and unconsciousness, have a tendency to leave the pain in your system despite the wounds having disappeared."

Draco drank quickly, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming sweetness of the taste that likely masked the natural sourness of the potion. He glanced at Astoria from over the edge of the mug as she looked from him to Weasley. Their schooltime feud was no secret, after all.

She was clutching a large brown envelope, traces of ash still around the hem of her robes as she exchanged curt words with Weasley, who took on a more professional attitude while speaking to her. Though Draco knew that she must be tired, there was a fire in her eyes that was very far from exhaustion which he caught every time she glanced at him worriedly while speaking to Weasley.

Healer Goldstein - he assumed she was the one Weasley had mentioned - was saying something.

"What?"

She repeated herself patiently. "Do you have any more discomfort?"

"My throat's killing me."

As the Healer turned away to quickly prepare some sort of potion, the whiff of which seemed very much like Pepper-up, on a cart full of small vials that he had neglected to notice since it was just beyond his line of vision next to the bedside table, Weasley straightened in his spot, and after throwing Draco one last look of dislike, exited the area without another word.

"Thank you," Astoria called after him, before redirecting her attention to Draco and moving closer to his bed, opposite from where the Healer was quickly mixing potions with her wand.

She surveyed him silently, as if trying to gauge how recovered he was, and he saw that her knuckles were white, clean now but strained against the envelope as she clutched it in an iron grip, emanating tension which she tried to diminish by giving him a small smile. She didn't quite succeeding. He wanted to smooth out the intensity of her knuckles with his hand, but Healer Goldstein was there and had just set a cup of something between his hands, and there was a distinct difference between the smoky air of the recently burning Manor and the crisp air of the white room in St. Mungo's.

So he drank readily, and couldn't help a sigh as the soreness of his throat was almost instantly soothed.

"The Ministry should be paying for all the expenses," Astoria remarked as he drained the last of the potion, looking about them.

Draco almost laughed at how minimal the expenses for St. Mungo's were likely to be, poor as this service was by traditional Malfoy standards. But he was quickly stopped by the realization that paying even for such insignificant treatment might leave a considerable dent in his already drained Gringotts account. He handed back the empty cup and ground his teeth.

"What happened to Creevey?"

"I'm not sure yet," Astoria replied, tension just as present in her voice as it was in her manner. "I couldn't be sure that it  _was_  Creevey... I ran to the Ministry without waiting to find out... so I didn't say anything when I called the Aurors by Floo… but I think I saw them take him into custody while you were running into the house."

 _Of course_  she hadn't stayed in the corridor the way he had thought she had. She would obviously never be careless enough to do as he said when he was so clearly wrong. He should have known… but when he had been running through the burning Manor, common sense hadn't exactly been the first thing on his mind. There was still a part of him that breathed a sigh of relief every time he looked at her and realized that those minutes he had spent thinking she might be dead somewhere in the rubble had been unfounded.

Instead of staying where she was, as he had so stupidly told her, she had run in the opposite direction even as he threw himself headfirst into Creevey's violent attack. She had somehow gotten her hands on Floo powder and immediately gone to the Ministry, calling the Aurors for help. Her clever idea had proved Draco's salvation, since it had all been done quickly enough to avoid the Manor burning to the ground before they arrived.

Thinking back, it should have been obvious to Draco that the figures that had apprehended Creevey had been Aurors summoned by Astoria, but in the moment and the haze of adrenaline, fueled by pain and overwhelming fear, he hadn't really been thinking straight. He supposed all those punches to his head hadn't helped matters.

"How much of the Manor was destroyed?" he asked after a moment, uneasy. It had  _seemed_  like it had only been the South Wing, but considering all the things he had missed, he may have been wrong.

"Only the South Wing, thankfully," Astoria answered, and he breathed a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Ollie was able to hold back most of it. It was very well done; Elf magic is always useful in a pinch."

He raised a hand to rub his face, now free from the phantom pain. He caught sight of his left forearm as he did so, only just realizing that his sleeve had fallen down his elbow and revealed the Dark Mark underneath. He was strangely relieved to realize that although all other scars he had received in the past weeks were gone from him, the jagged white one that split the skull and snake in half remained stark against the magical ink.

The healer seemed to pointedly ignore his left arm. He wondered if they had all been too frightened to touch it. He wondered also, briefly, what Weasley had thought of it, and recoiled at the thought. Instead of dwelling on the humiliation of it all, he allowed Healer Goldstein to examine his pulse and wondered how long he would have to remain in that place before he was allowed to return home.

Astoria seemed to have the same issue on her mind, because she was looking up at a clock that hung on the wall behind him. It was nearly two in the morning; the hour surprised him. He felt like days had passed since they had calmly had dinner in the sitting room.

"When will he be free to go?" Astoria asked the healer, voicing his question for him.

The witch looked up from Draco's arm and then looked back at him critically, as if staring at him hard enough would reveal the state of his health. He scowled.

"I reckon he's free to go, if he can stand upright," she said, straightening and crossing her plump arms before her as she looked Draco sternly in the face. "I'd suggest more Pepper-up potion if you feel too lightheaded, but nothing else to deal with the pain. That'll have to go away on its own."

He nodded tiredly, and vaguely considered if the kind-faced woman would have held back her stern tone had his last name been anything other than Malfoy.

Astoria stepped closer to the bed as if she intended to help him sit up, and he studiously ignored her until he realized that extricating himself from the sheets would actually prove a difficult feat, so he resignedly allowed her to take his arm and help him regain his balance as he sat up and moved his legs over the edge of the bed.

He was nearly on his feet when the movement of one of the screens called their attention. It slid open to reveal a very tired-looking Bill Weasley, who though dressed in office robes, did not look particularly eager to be there. They must have roused him from bed.

The long-haired wizard met Draco's gaze for a moment, and Draco had to stifle a groan. It seemed that he was doomed to spend the night being found in increasingly more vulnerable situations by red-headed fools. Astoria, on the other hand, seemed relieved to see the older wizard, though the expression on her face contradicted that emotion with startling violence.

"Oh good, you're here," she said tersely, releasing Draco's arm and turning to Weasley, arms crossed in front of her. "I need to speak to you."

"I'm familiar with the situation, Miss Greengrass," Weasley said tiredly. "I came to make sure that everything is in order. But I do believe that convening a meeting could wait until tomorrow."

"I'm not satisfied with the security being provided to my client, and that is a matter that can't wait another second," Astoria snapped. Draco stared at her with some bewilderment. Her lips were set in a firm line and there was unmistakable anger in her eyes, which flashed as she looked at Weasley.

Weasley glanced again at Draco, and then jerked his head towards the other side of the screen. "Perhaps this conversation is better suited for another setting. Shall we?"

"It's no secret from my client," Astoria said. "And I'm not leaving him alone again."

"We might arrange-"

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh,  _now_  suitable security can be arranged? I don't think so. I do appreciate your brother's offer to stand guard over my client, but I don't want to let him out of my sight any longer that is absolutely necessary."

Ron Weasley had offered to watch over him? The idea was laughable, unless Weasley had wanted to take advantage of the situation to goad him as soon as he opened his eyes. But even Draco had to admit that Weasley had behaved much more civilly than he probably would have expected – more civilly, he had to admit, than Draco probably deserved in his eyes, given the history they shared. Weasley's restraint when it came to engaging in outright mistreatment was easy to understand, or his reluctance to leave Draco to rot in the burning corridors of Malfoy Manor when Astoria so clearly needed help moving him to St. Mungo's, but for Weasley to actually offer to watch over him when it wasn't even within his official responsibilities…

It was unsettling and embarrassing and it made Draco feel a new wave of lightheadedness and nausea that probably had nothing to do with the effects of the night's violence. He shrugged it off. It didn't change the fact that Ron Weasley was a bumbling oaf.

Bill Weasley sighed. "Very well - we might as well get this over with." He gestured towards someone beyond the screens and a wiry wizard with a mustache and Auror robes who seemed more the desk type than an Auror entered the enclosure, followed by a scowling Ron.

Draco sat wearily on the edge of the bed, trying not to look too much like he might fall over. Astoria was now closer to the foot of the hospital bed, one hand set upon its iron frame and the other holding the brown envelope stiffly at her side.

"As you well know, a few hours ago my client was assaulted by a group of wizards who set fire to his home and tortured him. They probably would have killed him, had they gotten the chance."

"I'm aware."

"I would like to know how it's possible for two fully trained Aurors to be defeated by  _Stunning Spells_  cast by a gaggle of seventeen and eighteen-year-olds," Astoria said sharply. Draco suddenly realized that she really was angry; angrier than he had ever seen her. "The Ministry of Magic was supposed to keep my client protected from the outside world during his trial; the duty of keeping his enemies  _out_  is just as important as keeping him  _in_. How is it possible that two Ministry Aurors were so easily overpowered?"

Weasley - the eldest one - clenched his jaw, looking troubled, his irritation not seeming particularly directed towards anyone. Nearby, Ron Weasley was still scowling, and it occurred to Draco that the situation must be just as grave in their eyes as it was in Astoria's. The thought was somewhat satisfying. He only wished the Pepper-up potion would sink in properly soon; he felt like a fool, holding onto the edge of the mattress to keep himself balanced on the bed, instead of standing like everyone around him.

"I agree with you, Miss Greengrass," Bill Weasley said wearily. "I'm just as concerned by this issue as you are. You can be assured that our department will be looking into the situation and speaking to these Aurors to discover exactly what happened and how we can avoid it happening again."

Astoria scoffed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, but that's  _terribly_  vague."

His eyes were stormy. "It has to be. Only a few hours have passed, and you've already demanded to speak to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In ordinary circumstances I would have refused to attend outright, being that this is not within my responsibilities-"

"Who was I supposed to speak to, then? I can't exactly carry Mr. Malfoy back home without making any sort of demands on his part. What happened tonight is  _disgraceful_ , and should be treated with more gravity-"

"You overstep your bounds, Miss Greengrass."

"Why? Because I chose to speak to the Head instead of some common Auror and you  _deigned_  to grant me an audience? You wouldn't have come if you hadn't known how bad this all is. To be honest, I'm having a difficult time trusting anyone in your department; they all seem terribly ambivalent when it comes to the safety of my client."

Her hand was shaking at her side, the envelope creasing in her grip. All the feelings she had gone through over the past few days had risen together in a wave and been unleashed upon the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Draco couldn't blame her. He was only surprised at her surprise. He had long known that the Ministry's attempts to protect him and his mother were feeble, at best. It was too much to expect them to ever acknowledge it directly. But Astoria had put Weasley in a difficult position; Creevey's attack made the Aurors' incompetence painfully evident, and it was all bound to make the news early next morning. Malfoy Manor still represented one of the most well-known wizarding homes in the magical community, and despite its owners having fallen out of favor, there were many emotions tied to the building. The last thing the Ministry needed was more people suspecting them of incompetence.

The Weasleys met each others' gazes for a split second, before Bill turned back to Astoria. There was a pause before he spoke, his tone weary but somehow sharp all the same. "We'll be investigating this issue, and I assure you, it won't repeat itself again. I'm sorry that you feel Mr. Malfoy isn't safe, but you have to understand that this all stems from a past that has nothing to do with the Ministry. The Ministry can't be blamed for the enemies Mr. Malfoy has made over the years."

There was a pause.

"So you're saying that we should just accept that people will break into Malfoy Manor, torture its occupants and get away with it unscathed without any consequences or a competent response from the Ministry because  _it can't be blamed for the past_?"

"That's not what I said."

Ron Weasley spoke up, his eyebrows drawn together. "Thorfinn Rowle killed Colin during the Battle of Hogwarts, and killed himself right before he was put into Azkaban. I guess Dennis decided to reach closure by his own means."

"So you can't even keep your murderers safe from themselves," Astoria said darkly. "That's not exactly helping your case."

"I'm just trying to give it context," Ron Weasley argued, frowning. "Everything's in a dangerous state right now. With Greyback's retrial tensions are bound to be high; there's only so much the Ministry can do."

"That being said," Bill Weasley put in, raising a hand. "Don't be under the impression that Creevey won't suffer any consequences for what he's done. He's facing Azkaban and will have to do a remarkably good job if he intends to escape a sentence."

Draco snorted slightly, a hollow laugh. If Creevey was already facing Azkaban and would have trouble avoiding imprisonment, he didn't want to imagine what his own chances were, with a Dark Mark branded on his arm. He glanced at Astoria, whose expression didn't seem to have changed. He wondered if the same thought had occurred to her; or maybe she had already resigned herself to the truth earlier that day. Hadn't he asked her as much himself?

He suddenly remembered how Daphne and Pansy's fates were so entwined with his, and though the potion was slowly renewing his vigor, he had an urge to just lie back down again and allow sleep to overtake him. Anything to avoid the chaos of reality.

But he could feel Weasley's eyes on his back and felt his own fingers curl against the side of the mattress. He had no intention of letting Weasley see how detestably weak he was in the face of his predicament.

Astoria had sighed with exasperation. "I want you to change the guards."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, and you know it," Bill Weasley replied calmly. "For tonight, maybe, since Buchanan and Smith may need a night off to recover, and the relevant inquiries must be made. I'm sure Ron can assist in finding suitable replacements for tonight. But on the long run, I'm afraid it's impossible; we're severely understaffed as is, and we can't move around our resources, scarce as they are."

Astoria's nails played a sharp tune against the iron of the bed. "They were  _stunned_. By  _kids_  fresh out of Hogwarts; something they likely learned in Dumbledore's Army, while your Aurors are supposed to have received professional training. Buchanan and Smith are incompetent and I want them replaced. Permanently."

Weasley was scowling. Draco wondered if the dig at Dumbledore's Army had been a good idea, but Astoria didn't seem to care. "You can discuss this matter with my brother; I've already told you the state of affairs. If you intend to continue your complaints-"

"I  _will_  speak to you, Mr. Weasley," Astoria persisted angrily. "This isn't just about the Aurors - it's about how the Ministry has dealt with my client from the very beginning. Thousands of galleons' worth were lost tonight in the fire, which for all your arguments is  _still_  your responsibility, since the building and its occupants were under your custody. If I hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened, seeing as Buchanan and Smith weren't even capable of sending a Patronus to sound the alarm."

Weasley had had enough. "What do you want me to say to you, Miss Greengrass?" he exclaimed, his usually cool demeanor suddenly altered. "That I agree with you? I was the one who warned you as well as I could of the situation with Creevey and his people - there's only so much we can do in these times."

"If you knew how serious the situation was, you should have reinforced security around the Manor!"

"With what resources?" he cried, nostrils flaring. "Believe me, if it was in my power I would have surrounded that house with at least four Aurors of excellent training as soon as the protests started, but as it is, we had to make do. I believe Buchanan and Smith have it in them to make an excellent defense, and they won't be replaced."

"And what about all the damage caused to the building? My client is hardly in the financial state to repair it, what with the money that's already been drained from him for his defense. Are you going to leave that in his hands, too, as well as his safety?"

Bill Weasley stared at her for a long moment. The wizard with the mustache looked rather embarrassed, as if unsure of what could possibly be said in answer to that.

If it came to it, Astoria could easily threaten to take the story to the  _Daily Prophet_. The Ministry wouldn't be able to bear it.

Maybe they were aware of the unsaid possibility, and were just as reluctant to have her resort to those measures as she was, because Weasley sighed and muttered something to the wizard at his side, who produced a roll of parchment and a purple quill, which began to quietly write in midair before his nose.

"I'll have to discuss it with other officials within the Ministry," Weasley replied, his tone more subdued, the weight of the late hour evident around his eyes as he spoke. "But hopefully some coverage of the costs can be arranged. I won't promise anything, because it's not in my power to make a decision like that alone, but I promise you I'll do my best to find a solution."

And just like that, they were turning and disappearing behind the screen, Ron Weasley bringing up the rear and shooting Draco a look of dislike that was almost comfortingly familiar. It was a relief to be able to openly glare at people who so clearly shared the same sentiment.

Healer Goldstein had slipped away at some point in the conversation, evidently seeing herself out, loath to take part in the tense conversation. Astoria, though, remained on her feet staring in the same direction for a while, the envelope still clutched tightly in her hand and shaking slightly as her rage slowly subsided.

She was still standing in that position when Draco finally managed to get on his feet, wincing as phantom pain shot up to his knees and taking a moment to breathe in deeply before stepping forwards. The potion had worked wonders, though it was unable to erase the effects of Creevey's assault completely from his body - or rather, from his brain - and he found himself feeling nothing but a strong urge to go home and change his dirty robes, and maybe finally have a decent drink.

He stepped towards Astoria and set a hand lightly on her shoulder. She started out of her reverie.

"Oh," she said with some surprise, reaching sideways in case he needed her help to keep himself upright. He didn't. "Can you walk?"

"I've made it this far, haven't I?" he drawled with a smirk that was probably too cocky for someone who had just undergone one of the most harrowing nights of his life.

"Yes, you have," she answered so quietly that she might have only meant to say it to herself. She looked up at him for a moment, his face healed from gashes and bruises and cleared of blood - his nose slightly straightened, as the damage inflicted by the punch that had hurt his nose some time ago had been rectified, and Draco felt like he was watching the wild tide of her anger slowly abate in her eyes.

Finally, she took a deep breath, blinking her thoughts away and reaching for his arm. "All right. Let's take you home."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're caught up now on both sites! Thank you so much for your reviews. From now on I'll be posting chapters simultaneously everywhere, so you don't have to worry about waiting longer for newer chapters to be posted on AO3.


	20. Chapter 20

They stumbled out of the fireplace, Draco coughing at renewed exposure to smoke. Astoria reached out to grab him as he stepped unsteadily onto the floor of the drawing room, which fell dark as the green flames receded. She lit her wand; there didn't seem to be any other lights in the room, but Draco appeared to not notice.

Again, he moved away from her.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't.

Astoria hated to admit it to herself, but she didn't know what to do. It was late – closer to dawn than it was to sunset – and it was clear that Draco needed rest; but she was loath to leave him alone in the house after everything that had happened, not sure if he would be able to make his way to his bedroom on his own anyway, no matter how much he protested. After the scare of the fire she had a strange urge to stay with him for as long as possible, and the idea of going back home to her quiet flat without knowing if he was really safe was oddly terrifying. She supposed it had something to do with shock. The last few hours had been spent in a frenzy of paperwork and negotiations at St. Mungo's, both with the staff and Weasley's people, and she had been constantly looking over her shoulder in an almost paranoid manner, expecting reporters to arrive at any time.

In the end, the news didn't seem to have leaked yet, but she had no doubt it – or speculating variations of it – would be splayed loudly across the headlines in the morning.

She reached into her robes pocket as Draco covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes with frustration. Astoria could tell he hated looking so weak, and she knew that his encounter with Ronald Weasley hadn't exactly helped matters. She had hoped to get through St. Mungo's without him having to interact with anyone, but there hadn't been much of a choice when she had to discuss matters quickly and at the same time keep an eye on him.

He ground his shoe into the broken glass on the floor. It made a crunching, creaking sound that echoed throughout the empty hall, eerie in the semi-darkness.

"The whole house smells like smoke," he said hoarsely.

She nodded, nose slightly wrinkled. "You should go to your room."

Draco groaned and leaned back against the wall of the Manor, closing his eyes. He looked less pale than he had looked at St. Mungo's: evidently the potion he had taken had helped restore his energy. She was beginning to wonder if it might have been a good idea to ask the healer to provide her with some Pepper-Up as well.

Gulping down the shock that was slowly beginning to manifest itself at an entirely inconvenient time, she stepped towards him and eyed the tall windows that were shrouded with heavy, dusty curtains.

"The wards need redoing," she said gently, as if afraid that the room could hear her.

Draco looked up at her with raised eyebrows, half a scowl still etched on his expression. He glanced at the high walls, their corners fading into darkness, and looked away quickly as if he saw things he didn't like to look at.

"Yeah, I'm sure they do," he bit out.

"I can do some–"

"It won't work," he said impassively. "I told you: Armand Malfoy–"

"Had a thing about people playing with his wards, yes," she recited tiredly. "Hand me your wand, then."

In the pale light, she could see his grey eyes staring at her. Maybe it had been a bold thing to ask, but she didn't have the patience to go about it delicately. The truth was that with every second Malfoy Manor's wards were down, they ran greater risk of being attacked again, despite whatever Bill Weasley might say about his Aurors' competence. Astoria extended her hand palm up, and Draco slowly extracted his wand from his pocket, handing it to her with something akin to reluctance.

He was still staring at it as she held it up and quickly recited as many spells as she could think of that might protect the place – they weren't many, but her father had instructed her on a few as soon as she had left home, insisting that if she refused to remain in the family house, then at the very least her parents had the right to know that she was safe. She was thankful for the knowledge now.

As she turned to hand it back to him, she saw that he was still staring at it, his expression oddly resentful, though the emotion didn't seem to be directed at her.

She took a breath as he took it back, glancing around at the rest of the room. Draco didn't show any signs of wanting to move, and under the weight of the night's silence, she dared to ask the question that had been pressing in her mind for a while. "Why didn't you have this cleaned?"

Draco shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I don't know. I think Ollie doesn't like changing things. And… after…" he turned his eyes away from her face, blinking hard, as if dislodging something from his thoughts. "After, no one really seemed to care."

Astoria watched him as he raised a hand and rubbed his face – she had come to realize that he did it often, out of instinct. There was something about the room, but she knew better than to ask. There were some things that were better left buried, be they under new memories or a thin layer of old, broken glass. She didn't think Draco had noticed, but in her daily journeys from the main entrance to where he was, she had often caught sight of sections where the glass was stained with minuscule particles of dried blood – it was probably good that he hadn't seen it.

She did her best to sound casual, watching him carefully as he stayed in his spot against the wall. "I could teach you a spell."

He snorted. "It wouldn't be much use," he drawled darkly. "Seeing as I'm incapable of using my wand for anything."

"How long?"

He shrugged again. "After – after Hogwarts, I suppose. The battle, I mean. I just – I just stopped."

And she supposed that besides spells meant for luxury– summoning and cleaning and the like – he probably hadn't had much use for them. He was confined to the Manor most of the time, even before his official arrest, for his own security, and he had a House-Elf to do his chores for him.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. "I – I'm not a  _squib_ , or anything," he put in quickly, as if he regretted confessing his discomfort so openly to her. "I  _can_  do it – I just…"

"You need time," she said simply.

"Yeah."

She looked around once more, as if the ghosts of the room might be watching, and stepped closer to him. "Let's go upstairs."

He didn't move, but looked at her for a moment before speaking, mouth curving into a sardonic half-smile. "Frankly, I don't think I can manage standing straight."

"Are you in pain?

His grin widened, teeth gleaming in the white light of her wand, looking more like a grimace. "No more than usual."

She stared at him for a moment, and then extended an arm. "Come on, then."

He stared at her blankly, then stiffened, then relaxed, and then somehow he had one arm over her shoulders and she was supporting his middle as they weakly made their way over the floor that was dusted with pieces of glass. It occurred to Astoria, as they reached the doorway, that she could do the cleaning spells herself and rid the room of the rubble… but there was something wrong about the idea, as if she would be disturbing things that weren't meant to be disturbed. Somehow, she didn't feel like she had the right.

Draco had severely understated his exhaustion. His muscles trembled against her, and it quickly became clear that he had only been leaning against the wall because he couldn't hold himself up any other way. His skin was hot under his thin robes and shirt; much too hot. Was it because of the effort he was making, or did he still have a fever?

She herself felt weak at the knees from fatigue. Taking late morning and part of the afternoon to sleep seemed like nothing now, like a distant set of events that had happened to someone else. Draco's head was bowed, and she could hear his breath escaping h faster than usual as they slowly made their way up the stairs, his grip tight on her shoulders.

The staircase felt endless, and she could feel his ribs under her grasp. He was thin – not quite unhealthily so, but it wasn't normal in the Draco she had seen at Hogwarts – and his ribs dug into her fingers sharply as he shifted. He must have been quite muscular in his teenage years – she could remember it vaguely – but it had been a long time since then. And she couldn't help feeling oddly awkward with him pressed against her, his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him with every step they took. His fingers were curled around her upper arm, and as they reached the top of the stairs, he suddenly turned, and his face was nearly in her hair.

She couldn't bring herself to pull away.

Draco's arm slid off her and soon he was sliding to the ground, sitting on the last step with his eyes closed as he leaned back against the banister.

"The whole house smells like fucking smoke," he muttered crossly.

"Your room's on the opposite side," she pointed out. "It should be better there."

He snorted. "What's the point?"

"You need rest."

As he opened his eyes to look at her, the corner of his mouth lifted in the same small, grim smile he had offered her before. "They just tried to burn down my fucking house."

He said it so calmly that she suddenly got an urge to laugh, and she did so, breathlessly, somewhat hysterically, choking on her own breath and joining him on the floor. Her shoes left prints on the dust that was intermixed with ashes and she reached up, elbows balanced on her knees, to rub her eyes. It had been a long night.

When she looked up, he looked vaguely amused despite himself. "I don't think it's a laughing matter."

"I know," she amended, shaking her head slowly. "Sorry. It's just – it's been a crazy night."

"It's been bloody  _insane_."

His white-blond hair fell around his brow more messily than usual, exhaustion drawn in lines over his face. His smile had faded, but he surveyed her seriously. "You do realize he's going to get away with it," he stated simply.

Her jaw clenched. "Is this really the time to talk about this?"

His smile was sarcastic. "Isn't it always?"

She took a deep breath and folded her fingers on her lap. Her wand lay lit between them, casting strange shadows over their bodies. Astoria felt like they were in a dark cave somewhere, alone, rather than in a vast Manor.

"He might get a fine – or a few days, at least."

"He won't," he countered. "Creevey's going to get away with it. You know he will. And you know he  _should_. Just like you know that I  _should_ be in Azkaban."

Astoria frowned, taken aback at the sudden intensity of his words. "What are you saying?"

Of all the things she might have thought he would want to talk about, this was the last. They were both exhausted, both worn out and in shock after everything that had happened, and he wanted to discuss his  _case_?

"I'm saying you're being unrealistic about all of this."

"I'm not." Her tone was, perhaps, a bit more defensive than it should be.

"You are," he said, mouth a thin line. "But it's normal. You're biased."

She stared at him in honest surprise, and a bit of offense. "I'm  _biased_?"

"You're biased, Astoria. Admit it."

"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

His eyes were burning into hers, now. She wanted to look away. "You  _knew_  Daphne had done something; maybe you didn't even want to admit it to yourself, but that's why you care so much about my precedent."

She let out a low laugh. "You're saying I just picked this case because of my sister?"

He didn't say anything.

Her eyes narrowed. Her hands curled into fists and she set them down on either side of her, braced tightly against the hard floor. "Yes," she bit out. "Yes, I picked it because it would leave a precedent. I picked it because it mattered to have you be treated justly, because it matters for her, because it matters for  _everyone_. Don't you dare suggest that I don't care about this case–"

"That's not what I said."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to accept that I'm going to lose," he said calmly. "You  _know_  I am; it's no use still pretending. You should have had me plead not guilty, instead of making me into some sort of  _statement_ –"

Astoria stared at him. "You think this is my fault."

"What?"

Her eyes were wide. "You think Creevey attacked you because I made you into a symbol."

He looked alarmed. "I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't," she relented quietly, but her eyes were still wide, horror slowly seeping into her expression. "But it's true. I turned you into a symbol and Creevey-" She moved to stand up, breath catching.

Draco reached up suddenly, faster than she thought he would be able to move in his tired state. His fingers fastened around her wrist and he dragged her back down to sit beside him, frowning as she looked at him with horror. "This wasn't your fault."

"You could have  _died_."

His fingers were warm against her wrist, and he didn't move them. Their gazes were locked, the faint light of the torches nearby flickering in their eyes. " _You_  could have died."

And something seemed to change as he held her gaze, the words suddenly clambering up his throat unchecked, and he couldn't stop himself, couldn't bring himself to set the filter he had forced upon himself in order to keep things simple, because his palm was pressed to her wrist tightly but not painfully, and –

"Nott's been paying me visits."

He watched her eyebrows twitch as she began to understand, and the rest left him in a torrent of explanations, as if he had planned out everything he meant to say, even though in truth he had never meant to say any of it. "He's the one the Aurors are looking for; the one who helped kill Scrimgeour... here." He coughed, feeling sick. "Downstairs. I don't know how they found out, but he's the one. And – he's been coming here to make sure I keep my mouth shut; he's left all these things in my father's study..."

She watched him without saying anything, listening attentively, and her knee was pressed against his knee and his hand was on the soft skin of her wrist and the hall was cold and the stairs were dark but he couldn't help it, because he was tired, so damn tired of keeping secrets from her, of holding back for the sake of holding back…

When he was done, she stared at him in silence for a moment, and then she looked away.

"So it  _is_  him," she said simply.

"Yeah. Thomas will probably find out about it soon enough, though, if he got this far."

"But… Draco…" she met his gaze again, insistent blue lined with tired stains of red. "This is your chance."

He sighed. His fingers slid off her wrist and fell to the ground. "I'm not saying anything. I just – "

"Draco he's  _planting evidence_ ," she said, and he could see anger in her expression. Anger at Nott. "He's planting evidence and setting you up – and you know this information about him – Draco… you could save the case."

He smirked. "So now you're admitting it's a lost case?"

Astoria ignored his tone. "You need to tell the Ministry."

He sighed. "He also knows about Parkinson and your sister, if you remember."

That stopped her. He watched in silence as she ground her teeth together, digging her teeth into her lip. Her hands were shaking slightly; she was as exhausted as he felt, though perhaps stronger.

After a beat, he spoke again. "I'm not going to rat out on anyone. I already told you that. I just – I guess I just wanted you to know."

She looked at him with pain in her eyes. "So you're just going to let him continue to come into your house and let him walk all over you?"

"I'm not  _letting_  him do  _anything_."

Astoria's eyes flashed, and before he could do anything, she was reaching out to his neck. He flinched slightly at the surprise, but her touch was warm as she leaned forwards to run her fingers over the collar of his shirt, pulling it down slightly to expose his skin to the light of her wand. His jaw clenched, but he knew better than to move as she examined him. The tips of her nails skimmed his throat and he held back a shiver.

Finally, she leaned back again, and in the close proximity of the half-darkness, her eyes were hard, shining blue. He felt that he could almost watch her breath escaping softly between her lips.

"I know he was the one who left all those bruises on your neck. They're healed now, but I saw them. He's been  _torturing_  you, Draco."

His gaze was burning. "That's not torture," he rasped. "I know what torture is."

She fell silent. He watched the side of her face as she looked away, thought he could hear the sound of her heartbeat, though it may have only been his own, the only sound in the abandoned hallway. The smell of smoke lingered at the back of his head, irritating but not burning the way it had done during the fire. The scent of  _her_  was more enveloping.

"You should have told me."

She said the words quietly, but then again she could have barely whispered them and he would have heard her. She looked up at him again and he was suddenly hyperaware of the feel of her palm – she had left it on his knee after moving from his neck –, and the way her dark hair stroked the edge of her jaw. He raised a hand and ran his fingers through his own, the movement making his muscles strain; he didn't think he would be able to make it to his feet anytime soon. He sighed.

"I didn't want to…" he took a breath. His fingers found her hand again, and he slid them over the soft inside of her wrist, not caring if it was too daring a move. He thought he saw her tremble. "I didn't want to add more things for you to worry about. You shouldn't have to deal with my shit."

A laugh escaped her, and she looked at him with unexpected gentleness. "Dealing with your shit is my job, Draco," she said wryly, but softly. "I'm your barrister."

He drew a breath. "You're not just my barrister."

Her fingers suddenly twisted around his and he could feel her skin over the expanse of his hand, and he couldn't help it – couldn't quite stop himself – didn't  _want_  to, because her eyes closed as she leaned upwards and her lips met his even as he leaned down, and her lips were so  _soft_ , his mouth closing over hers, tasting her, one arm moving to curl around her slender waist as he let go of her hand, moving to her neck, where he felt her pulse fluttering fast under his fingers, her breath hot against his lips as she pressed up against him, the length of her leg against his and one hand reaching upwards to his chest. He thought he felt her slide the tip of her tongue against his lower lip and held back a groan as her fingers clenched against his chest –

She pulled away suddenly, only a few centimeters from his lips, her grasp slackening as they breathed together, and she was shaking – from weariness, from shock, from something else, maybe – and then she took a deep breath and moved away, eyes fast on his as realization slowly took over.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to explain it – didn't know if he  _could_  explain it. Because he wasn't sure himself when things had changed; when she indeed had become more than just his barrister, when she had become his friend, and maybe something more – when the only thing he wanted was to taste her lips again and –

She stood up, and her pale hands clenched at each other as she stood above him, the ghosts of her touch still lingering on his chest and knee. His heart was beating wildly against his ribcage and he suspected that it was only partly because of his exhaustion.

Astoria reached sideways and grabbed her things, and she abruptly pulled out another bottle of Pepper-Up. She took a breath.

"I –" and he would have laughed at the disconcerted, suddenly vulnerable look she had on her face, if it hadn't been such a strange blow to him. "I – you should have this; it'll give you the strength." She handed the bottle to him, and he took it wordlessly. Her eyes seemed to flicker with agonizing slowness between his eyes and his mouth. He watched her bite her lip and taste it; wondered if she could still feel him the way he could feel her.

She cleared her throat. "I need to go," she said, and the emotion behind it was so authentic that it dug itself deep into his chest.

He nodded.

"Will you be all right getting yourself to your room?

And he nodded, because he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he wasn't entirely sure, and he hated that he nodded, hated that she nodded back shortly and then turned on her heel and left, walking quickly down the stairs, hated that he was too weak, too tired, too injured to get up himself and go after her, and hated the thought that he may have made the biggest mistake yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there you have it. So sorry about the delay, real life got incredibly stressful and this chapter decided to make itself hard to write, but I hope you enjoyed it. Please drop me a review to let me know what you think, or what you liked, or what you didn't (nicely, please), or what you think might happen... I love hearing from you! Thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

Astoria splashed water onto her face, trying to regain some feeling other than painful tension in her muscles.

The Ministry had been buzzing with news when she reached it that morning. Not only had the story of Creevey's attack on Malfoy Manor appeared in the headlines of the  _Daily Prophet_ —she hadn't read the article yet; there was enough plaguing her mind as it was and reading some badly informed reporter's version of events could definitely wait until later—, but Greyback's case seemed to be tilting dangerously in his favor. Not to mention the Goblins, which had stormed the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures just before lunch, and made escaping her office on the way to the Atrium a nearly hopeless ordeal.

So far, the day had not been the most productive. She had visited Bill Weasley yet again, if only to straighten out the facts of the attack the night before and try to appease any possible hostility that may have arisen from her own aggressiveness. She didn't regret a word she had said, to tell the truth, but she was aware of how establishing a tense relationship with the Head of the department might stack the odds against her, no matter how well-intentioned Weasley might be.

Lunch had left Astoria feeling sleepy, and she paused to lean against the sink, staring at her own reflection in the mirror and trying to regain some of the false confidence she had piled upon herself before leaving her flat at the start of the day. There was still much to do, and she couldn't afford having a breakdown when her case was in dire need of a revision.

Not that she could do much while not knowing what Draco would decide, anyway.

And then there was the matter of Draco himself—

She closed her eyes. It had the opposite effect from the one she had been looking for, as she was transported yet again to the ash-filled staircase in Malfoy Manor and the warmth of Draco's chest against her knuckles. She opened them again quickly. This was  _not_  the time.

It had been irritatingly difficult to speak plainly to Weasley when she was unable to share the biggest factors that affected Draco's case; particularly Nott's involvement in everything. She wasn't even going to begin to think about her own sister and Pansy's role in all of it, or she'd be paralyzed with dread. Professionally, what she needed was to ensure that Draco was safe and await his decision on whether or not he would name Nott in front of the jury.

Personally, however… that was another issue entirely.

Brushing her fingers through her hair and forcing a smile at herself in the mirror, she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. There were still countless matters for her to attend to, and the first of them would require her utmost confidence, as it involved having a conversation with Ernie Macmillan.

She left the bathroom soon after, knowing full well that the urge to stay locked inside the empty, cool room for as long as possible was completely irrational. People were filing back into their offices after lunch, and she knew as soon as she got to the entrance of the wide area where McMillan's cubicle was that he hadn't gone to lunch like the rest of them. From where she stood, she could see Padma Patil straighten up from where she had been sitting and picking up twin empty food containers.

Padma's strode towards where Astoria had just entered with energetic steps that were in direct contrast, Astoria suspected, to both her and Macmillan's current state of exhaustion. As she caught sight of her, she seemed to brighten up considerably from the concerned expression she had been wearing.

"Astoria!" she exclaimed as she approached, pushing her dark hair out of her face. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you," Astoria replied with a smile. "And you?"

"Somewhat annoyed, but that's every day now, what with the news," Padma said with a wry smile. "I just had lunch with Ernie, which was lovely, but—I'm a bit disturbed right now by the news about Greyback."

"I heard he might actually manage to reduce his sentence."

"Yes," Padma said bitterly, glancing around as if Shafiq himself might show up at any moment. "They're trying to bring it down to twenty years."

Astoria frowned. "At any rate he's likely to be dead by then—Azkaban's not kind on anyone, even without Dementors."

Padma let out a low, bitter laugh. "True. But still… it's the principle of the thing, you know?" She sighed. "I guess I'm just not made for your job; I get too frustrated about it all."

"Believe me, so do I," Astoria muttered, but Padma was already leaving, offering a friendly smile and a touch on the arm as she did.

Macmillan looked surprised when Astoria reached him, and scrambled to get his papers in order, quickly offering her a seat as he adjusted his glasses and looked at her with raised eyebrows. "When I sent that memo, I didn't think you'd come yourself," he explained with a small apologetic grin.

"I thought it was the most sensible thing to do," she replied, slightly amused, taking a seat. His cubicle was sparsely decorated, a picture of him and a woman whom she assumed must be his mother and a scenic calendar the only thing that added any character to the space.

"True," Macmillan agreed. "Well, I just wanted to make a proposal and leave it to your consideration. It might be in your best interest."

"Go on."

He crossed his fingers over the papers on his desk—which were set up in a much more orderly fashion than the ones on Astoria's desk were, she was quick to realize—and leaned forwards slightly. "Your client pleads guilty and we settle for only five years of imprisonment. Nothing else."

Astoria could hardly stop a bemused smile from spreading on her lips, though her mind was racing. " _Five_  years?"

He nodded.

"Five years is too much," she said, frowning. "Even if he were declared guilty on all counts there'd hardly be reason to give him a sentence larger than that."

"Fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts is five years  _at least_ ," he corrected her matter-of-factly, though he had to know that she was bluffing. She had spent countless hours counting sentences and calculating how bad it could all really be, and the answer had been that yes, it could be very bad. "Not to mention all the other counts, which would certainly pile up. No offense, Greengrass, but there's very little for you to hold on to at this point. Unless you pull something utterly spectacular, I really doubt you'll get anything under what I'm offering you."

"He's not getting sentenced to five years in Azkaban," Astoria said through gritted teeth. "He's not."

"That's not up to you," Macmillan said with a slight shrug. The space seemed too small to contain such a heavy conversation, and Astoria leaned back to take a breath, feeling mildly asphyxiated. "It's up to the Wizengamot, and making them love Malfoy is going to take a lot—"

He was suddenly interrupted as there was a sound of something flying through the air, and suddenly two memos dropped from above, addressed to each of them in identical handwriting. They glanced at each other and then moved to open them.

When she was done skimming over it, Astoria plopped it down on his desk with a thin smile and a heavy mix of conflicting emotions churning in her stomach. "Trial postponed until Friday."

Macmillan set down the memo thoughtfully and clenched his hand into a fist. It seemed that he wasn't entirely sure what to make of the situation either. Astoria suspected that he, like her, was just eager to have it all be over. "Well," he said slowly. "I suppose there's more time for you and your client to think over my proposal. I'd give it some consideration, if I were you."

She nodded. "Thank you. I will."

He watched her as she stood up to leave, and she could detect distinct pity in his eyes, which she knew she ought to appreciate but which only served to irritate her, feeling like he had somehow one-upped her in the situation even though nothing of the sort had happened.

"Greengrass," he said before she left, looking slightly conflicted. "I did tell you, when all of this started… this isn't the type of story where you save a misunderstood villain. Malfoy's a kid who messed up and is going to have to pay for it, no matter what he's like now."

Stopping, she turned and gave him a thin smile. "I appreciate your concern, Ernie," she said with enough courtesy to not be disrespectful. "But please save your arguments for the courtroom. I'll let you know if we do decide to take the deal."

And with that she left the room, oddly focused on making her every step even and steady so as to not give away how strangely shakened she was by it all. She supposed the circumstances didn't help; she had always had a sort of bizarre taste in friends… of course she would start to become close with her rival's girlfriend and grow  _dangerously_  close to her own client…

Reaching her desk, she inhaled the comfortable familiarity of the unruly pile of tasks that awaited her. On the forefront was the  _Daily Prophet_ , which she could no longer avoid reading. There was no doubt as to what the headline was about, depicting as it did a burning Malfoy Manor, which Astoria was sure had been a welcome sight at breakfast that morning for more than half of the country.

Moving a half-empty coffee mug carefully out of the way, she flicked through the paper quickly before settling down to read; the contents were predictable, and she wasn't even going to bother with the gossip section.

She quickly learned that Draco had been right. Dennis Creevey had only been under arrest for a few hours. He had been released shortly afterwards with a hefty fine, and not even the businesslike tone of the reporter could properly mask the fact that there was no pity directed at the Malfoy family at all—if he hadn't gained respect with his actions, Creevey had at the very least managed to get away without tainting his reputation. He had succeeded in representing the large population that was still hurt and bitter over the war and found disturbing glee in watching those that were once their enemies succumb to misfortune.

And Astoria couldn't find it within herself to be angry; unfortunately, Draco was right in insisting that if by Astoria's book he himself was to get away with all he'd done, then Creevey should certainly get away with much less.

Still, it left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

And could she even argue that at this point she was fighting for Draco's freedom merely for professional reasons? Could she honestly say that part of her desire to see him released of his charges wouldn't be so that she could allow herself to discover the part of him she had only just begun to uncover; the part of him that had kissed her so passionately the night before, made her realize that she was so completely concerned with his well-being that her life had somehow entwined itself with his, that she had found him in her thoughts in ways that thoroughly surpassed professional propriety and dangerously crossed the line into something deeply intimate…?

She knew that the thought ought to make her sick and nervous, but it only succeeded in pulling her thoughts back to the memory of the night before, and she let out a frustrated growl at herself as she dropped the  _Prophet_ , preparing to immerse herself once more in the more  _rational_  part of the whole affair, which certainly didn't involve Draco Malfoy's eyes or hands or, god forbid, his  _lips_ …

As if at her request, life produced the perfect thing to shake her out of her unruly musings.

The letter that suddenly dropped before her was directly addressed to  _Astoria Greengrass_  and signed in the unequivocal bright blue ink that would have already alerted her of the sender's identity without the signature spelling out  _Alexander Shafiq_.

It was… surprising, to say the least.

…

Going through security at the entrance to Azkaban Prison was supposed to be a disturbing experience all on its own, but the effect was only heightened for Astoria. She was all too aware of the likelihood of her having to carry out this trip many times in the future, if she should lose Draco's case and have to fight for them to reconsider his case.

It disturbed her that she was already thinking of that possibility.

The halo of blue light around her body faded and the guard gave her a friendly nod to indicate that she might pass. She seized her briefcase once more and made her way into the larger waiting room, where she instantly recognized Shafiq, dressed in robes of deep blue with a perpetual look of mild disinterest on his face, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"Miss Greengrass," he said serenely, reaching to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last."

The subtle tone of condescension wasn't lost on her. Shafiq had been working for years before she had, and had already accumulated quite an audience of both enemies and friends through his own efforts. He was expensive to hire, and an expert at twisting people's words against them. The very prospect of ever facing him in a trial made her squirm and it took nearly all of her willpower to shut her nervous thoughts out of her demeanor and keep her head held high.

"Likewise, Mr. Shafiq. Shall we proceed?"

He smiled. "Of course. I suppose you are familiar with the process?"

He had to know she was not. This was, after all, her first case—and she had had no intention of visiting any prisoners, as she hadn't wanted to have anyone unreliable testifying for Draco.

Training, then, would have to suffice. She nodded with a polite, tight smile.

The guards approached and unlocked the wide door with a spell. It opened slowly, revealing a simple, grey room with a table in the center and three chairs. Shafiq quickly made his way to one of the two empty ones, offering a short, businesslike nod to the man who occupied the chair opposite from the one Astoria was to take.

Gathering her wits—she seemed to be doing a lot of that today—Astoria stepped into the room and took her seat, looking up at the large frame of the man who was in shackles before her, his grey Azkaban robes stained with what must be blood, a heavy iron mask placed around his jaw like a dog's muzzle.

Shafiq tapped a quill gently against the iron table and seemed to ignore the way the prisoner was leaning against the table, as if to get a whiff of Astoria's perfume. She didn't shy away. She  _wouldn't_  shy away.

"Let's get to it, then," Shafiq said, almost casually, and turned to smile at Astoria. "Miss Greengrass, we have been following your case with some interest, particularly since so many of the circumstances surrounding your client overlap somewhat with mine's… I believe this could be a cause of some…  _understanding_ , you might say."

Astoria smiled tightly. "I can't say I entirely agree, Mr. Shafiq. But I am curious as to why you've brought me here." She didn't even bother hiding her distaste; what was the point? It was a wonder Shafiq could manage spending more than a few minutes with the creature in front of her every day.

Even if nothing came of it all, at least she would certainly go back to Draco feeling an intense amount of relief that she wasn't violently disgusted by her client every time she saw or thought about him.

"I suppose it's not really for me to say," Shafiq replied, looking towards the other man. "Do share what we're proposing, Fenrir."

And Fenrir Greyback let out a deep, growling sound from the depths of his throat that made Astoria shiver, no matter how hard she tried not to. His bloodshot eyes, combined with the sheer animalistic manner of his smile, which she could only see the edges of behind the mask but which clearly colored his voice with malicious intent, made her nails dig sharply into her own knee as she forced herself to stay put and keep up the act of professional neutrality.

"I know the boy's scared of talking 'bout Nott," Greyback rasped, and for some reason his referring to Draco in any capacity filled Astoria with a strange sort of possessive rage which was completely irrational, really. "Everyone knows what he's done but no one's wanting to accuse him. They're all cowardly idiots. But Malfoy and I worked pretty closely during the War… pretty up close, y'know? I'd say it's worth a try."

"What he means to say," Shafiq clarified, looking a bit irritated at Greyback's lack of synthesis. "Is that we'd like to ask Mr. Malfoy to testify on my client's behalf, seeing as they worked together on some instances, and he'd be able to speak with some authority about why Mr. Greyback ought to have his sentence reduced. And in exchange..."

"In exchange," Greyback interrupted, feral smile widening. "I'd let slip about Nott killin' the old Minister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Yeah, I suck. I'm sorry; this chapter is pathetically short and probably not satisfying at all after all the action that went down in the past few… but I've already started working on the next one!
> 
> Also, since this chapter starred Greyback I feel obliged to tell you that I recently published a one-shot about him: 'Extraneous Variables', which you can find in my profile. I've been producing a lot of content lately (a one-shot every two weeks!) and I'm currently working on another multichapter (which is going to be EPIC), so you might want to follow me if you aren't already. Please review, it's wonderful to hear your opinions :)


	22. Chapter 22

Draco gripped the handle of his bedroom door with more force than was strictly necessary, battling the sudden vertigo that his hurried emergence from beneath the covers had caused.

She was here.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door, regaining his balance as he breathed deeply. He really shouldn't have stayed in bed so long; it was warranted, of course, given how hard it had been to sleep the night before, but still... he should have given himself more time to think before Astoria returned to the Manor.

And he was actually surprised that she  _had_  returned. Her tone of shock and confusion the night before when he had—when  _they_  had—kissed, had shaken him. And the more he had thought about it, the more uneasy he had become about the whole situation. Had he seriously overestimated her attitude towards him, and overstepped boundaries that he never should have crossed? Had he offended her now that he had somehow expressed both to her and to himself, since he hadn't really been aware of the extent of his attraction to her until he had felt her lips against his, his interest in her as a person rather than a professional?

And now the Elf had just left after telling him that Astoria had just entered the Manor and was coming to see him.

He cursed and yanked the door open. It wouldn't do for them to meet here, in his bedroom. The mental image of Astoria sitting in such close proximity to his disheveled bed was... not one he should be considering in  _that_  light. No, the sitting room would do.

Buttoning his shirt as he went and reaching up to feel the stubble on his face—it was out of hand again, he looked like a bloody peasant, for Merlin's sake—he reached the room much more quickly than he thought he would, ignoring Narcissa as he passed her on her slow, silent walk towards her quarters; he avoided even looking at her nowadays, disturbed and more than a little concerned about what it all meant. If he went to Azkaban—

No, he didn't want to think about that.

He came to a stop in the center of the room, feeling suddenly constricted by the stuffy air and the heavy warmth of the fireplace. With a sigh of exasperation, he reached up and pulled the dusty drapes from where they covered most of the grimy windows, reaching up to unfasten the shutter locks and let in what little light could make its way through the narrow opening. The air, though, cleared slightly, and he felt instant relief as he breathed in, shaking the dust from his sleeves.

His relief was short-lived, broken by the sound of footsteps which stopped at the door.

"You came back," he found himself saying.

He heard her clear her throat slightly and shift where she stood. He couldn't trust himself to look at her, not when his heart was beating at a traitorous pace.

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

Drawing in a breath, he turned and saw her, standing in Ministry robes, no longer covered with ashes and dust. But she had her eyes downcast, looking at the carpet as she clutched her briefcase tightly much as he had done with the door handle earlier. He felt a wave of unexplainable relief, something rising in his chest, and he crossed his arms to suppress the sudden irrational urge he had to stalk towards her and—

"I don't know," he interrupted his own thoughts. "But I… I'm glad you did."

He thought he saw a slight smile on her lips before he looked away, not ready to hold her gaze.

"There are some things I need to tell you," Astoria said, and the businesslike tone of her voice, not quite masking the vulnerability that was there, blatantly evident to him since he had heard it moaned against his mouth, was somehow comforting. She had not deserted him.

...

"Testify for  _Greyback_?"

Astoria put her arms around herself and nervously chewed down on her lower lip. Draco was striding back and forth, feet silenced by the sitting room carpet, expression stormy.

"It's an option," she offered, not too sure of it herself. She had half expected him to react this way, but he'd been even more upset at her explanation than she had thought he might be. He glared at the window; she was vaguely grateful that he wasn't glaring at her.

Draco snorted, a look of disgust etched on his face. "And he told you we ' _worked together_ '? What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I've helped him in his fucked up attacks on little kids? What the  _hell_?"

She sighed, and moved to sit down on the couch. She herself had had the same reaction at Greyback and Shafiq's comments during their conversation at Azkaban, and wasn't surprised in the least that he had followed her same train of thought. "It's still something you should consider," she said helplessly, crossing her legs. "I understand how you feel; really, I do. But it's important to take all options into consideration."

Draco stopped and swiveled slowly in his place, turning to look at her. It was the first time their gazes had locked since the night before, when their conversation at the top of the stairs had grown all too intimate, and she couldn't bring herself to look away from the soft grey which seemed to burn with more than just his anger at the comment. She wondered if he also felt the way she did, struggling to keep his head up over the sudden flood of emotions that being in each other's presence, in such close quarters, caused. She wondered if he also felt the straining urge to somehow make his way closer to her again.

Maybe it was bound to happen, after spending so much time together over the last few weeks. Maybe it was natural to have such feelings in the face of the dangers they had faced together, of the isolation they had both endured because of the strain the case put on their lives.

His eyes, having been trained on the room around him and at spots over her head as she had explained the situation earlier, finally trailed down from her eyes over her body, and she was excruciatingly aware of her every pore, of every inch of bare skin that showed on her legs and arms and neck…

This was not the way she should be conducting these meetings.

She swallowed and shifted slightly. It seemed to pull Draco out of his trance of silence, and he let out a sigh as he crossed his arms in front of him, mimicking her own position, frowning once more at the carpet.

"I'm not testifying for Greyback. There's no way in hell I'm doing anything that would get that monster out of Azkaban."

"It would be an easier solution to the Nott situation. And you were saying that you didn't want to pick sides—"

Draco snorted. "Are you honestly trying to convince me to side with Greyback? I'd be better perceived if I sided with the Dark Lord himself! As for Nott… it still doesn't solve the issue with Pansy and Daphne."

As if she needed reminding. She sighed and reached for a biscuit that was on the coffee table. Draco had turned to look out the window again—a slightly less grimy section let the full moon shine through and it illuminated him with pale light, his shirt hanging loosely about his torso.

"What I don't understand," she began slowly, letting the remainder of the biscuit hang between her fingers. "Is why Nott's so caught up with  _you_  in particular. The feud seems terribly personal."

Draco looked back and smirked wryly. She crossed her ankles together tightly; somehow tonight it was harder to act normal, to remain  _neutral._  "It's because I'm so damn  _fascinating_."

She let out a low laugh. "I would really like to know  _why_."

There were a few minutes of silence before he spoke again. "What do you think I should do?"

"I already told you," she said, leaning back on the couch, having finished the biscuit. "I can't tell you that. You have to decide."

He ground his teeth. "Aren't you supposed to give me advice?" he demanded, though there was little ferocity to his tone as he walked back towards her, falling into the opposite side of the couch, legs stretched out in front of him. "I just—I'm not used to making these sort of decisions; fuck, I'm not used to making  _any_ sort of decisions, it's all so bloody complicated…" He took in a deep breath, fingers digging into the armrest. "It'd be so much easier to just go to Azkaban. Maybe we should just take Macmillan's deal."

"You're  _not_ going to Azkaban for five years."

He turned to look at her, head leaning against the cushions, his white-blond hair falling over his forehead. "And yet you seem really adamant about deciding  _that_  for me."

He had a point. Astoria gave him a light scowl and looked away in silent admission.

"We're losing, Astoria."

She clenched her jaw, and it took her a while to look up at him and meet his gaze. "There's still a chance."

Draco threw back his head and looked up at the roof, reaching his legs out to set the heels of his feet on the coffee table. "I'm not having anything to do with Greyback. I don't—I don't  _care_  what my father says; maybe this isn't picking a side, in his eyes," he frowned, grinding his teeth together. "But to me it is. And I'm not picking Greyback's side. Even if it helps me. Do you  _know_  what he used to do? The things he did in this very house? I'm not—I'm  _not_. No."

And he suddenly sat up, turning to look at her with ferocious determination in his eyes. "We're losing. That's fine. But I'm not testifying for him. Let Nott get away with it; it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway."

"Okay," Astoria said simply, and she couldn't help the slight smile that materialized on her lips, because the determination in his eyes was something she had hoped to see for a long time.

She glanced down at where his hand was, resting mere centimeters away from her fingers. If she reached out, she could entwine hers with his, feel the smooth, warm skin she had felt only a few times before but which had been on her mind much more than was probably appropriate—

She looked up. Draco's grey eyes were also on her hand, and she was suddenly aware of how very alone they were. No one would have to know, there was nothing to stop her from reaching out to pull him towards her; after all, she could see it in his expression—he was holding back—

No. This was ridiculous.

She cleared her throat and pulled her hand away, crossing her fingers over her lap. He looked away, and for a moment they sat in silence.

He leaned forwards, his hair a pale frame around his face, and he removed his feet from the coffee table, elbows on his knees. Stubble marked his jaw, now, and she wondered absently how it might feel against her neck. She was positive that he could hear her heartbeat, pounding in the silence.

"If you don't want to collaborate with Greyback," she began again slowly, forcing herself to focus. "Then we have to find another way for Nott to be exposed. You can't just let him get away with it."

He sighed and shifted, running a hand through his hair. "Even if someone else exposes him, Pansy and your sister are still at risk. I doesn't really make a difference  _who_  does it."

"I know," she replied, because there wasn't really anything else to say.

Draco rubbed his face suddenly, letting out another sigh of tiredness. "I'm so  _done_  with this whole trial. I just—" he interrupted himself, biting down on the words he was about to say. "Maybe a while ago I would have taken Macmillan's deal, no matter what you wanted; Azkaban seems bloody  _wonderful_  in the face of this mess, and I bet I could survive five years. The whole uproar about me would be over with quickly and it would help appease people like Creevey, probably, though I'm sure they'd want me dead anyway. But…" He trailed off.

"Don't think about them," Astoria said. "They don't matter. This is your decision, and you have to make it without thinking of anyone."

"I can't decide about Nott," he said, his voice sounding hollow. "I can't do that without thinking about anyone."

"You can."

He turned his head and looked at her,  _really_ looked at her, his eyes examining her face with a sort of gentleness that shook her, an urgency to his expression that she felt she was supposed to understand somehow, even though she couldn't read what he was trying to tell her.

"I can't."

She swallowed, and maybe it was something about the intensity of it all that prompted her to stand up, leaving her place in the couch beside him and grabbing her things. It was both infinitely easy and infinitely hard. She needed to be alone, to be surrounded by the simplicity of the library and the tiring yet satisfying task of making sense of an intake of information; anything was simpler than dealing with Draco and the strange feelings he had begun to cause in her.

...

The library was a quiet reprieve from the tension of the sitting room, and as Draco wandered about, pulling out books at random for examination—she supposed he never came into the library unless she was there, and she didn't blame him; it could be an eerie place to find oneself in alone—she immersed herself in the volumes she had left waiting for her on the small table a few days before. She still had very few answers, and though she was thankful for the new extension of time she had to prepare, she was also anxious for it all to be over. She would have to make the most of her time, but there was precious little she could use.

And it was as she was poring over  _Nature's Nobility_ , a book that, Draco had confided in her, had made him positively sure that he would hate reading for the rest of his life, that the idea struck her.

"Draco," she called out in a low voice, as if speaking in a tone any louder might rouse the sleeping books around them.

He emerged from a bookcase nearby, an eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Do you have a family tree drawn anywhere?"

He snorted. "Why would you want to see that rubbish?"

"It's just a hunch I have."

She followed him up the third floor corridor, near where the fire had taken place. As they caught the scent of ashes, still lingering in the air, she thought she saw him stiffen, and he reached out to grab her upper arm and steer her in the right direction as they reached a room which separated into three others. When she said nothing, his grip tightened slightly and he didn't let go for a while.

"I think it's stupid," Draco remarked as they arrived at what looked like an abandoned storeroom, splintered broomsticks littering a corner and a large furled cloth lying beside the furthest wall. "I had the Elf bring it up here a few months after… after everything. It fell down near the steps and kept tripping me up; it's bloody annoying like that. And the paintings on it are even worse."

He helped her unroll it across the faded carpet, its colors looking strangely vibrant in the dusty room. It was a large tapestry with a family tree painted across it, charmed to have the portraits of the people it featured appear and disappear above their names. Astoria caught sight of many stern-looking Malfoys which carried an eerie resemblance to Lucius Malfoy, yet looked considerably more unpleasant-looking than Draco. They watched her haughtily as she examined the tree's branches, sprawling across the heavy cloth which was so large she had to walk around the room to be able to read the names out properly.

Draco stood back, leaning against a wall, watching her and looking rather perplexed, his eyes pointedly avoiding the large silver engraving of  _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_.

"Andrealphus Malfoy," she read out loud suddenly, looking up at Draco and then back down at the tapestry. "Your grandfather had a brother? I thought Malfoys usually only had one child."

Draco's lips curved into a smirk. "Not if you ask anyone about it, no. The Malfoys like to forget that that mistake ever happened—it's sort of a scandal."

Astoria raised her eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"Well," he began rather reluctantly, straightening from where he stood by the wall. "I don't know much about it; just what Mother told me when I got curious, years ago. Father doesn't like talking about it. It was a disgrace to the family and very few people know about it because Abraxas—my grandfather—got furious whenever anyone mentioned his brother. Adrealphus was kind of a rebel, I guess, much younger than Abraxas, and he went and slept with a Fawcett or something, against his father's wishes. He got her pregnant, and then he died." Draco shrugged. "I'm pretty sure Abraxas or his father killed him; it was the biggest Malfoy scandal in history…" he stopped with a twisted sort of smile. "Well, until the War came along."

"But he wasn't disowned or anything? I would have thought they'd erase him from the family tree."

Draco grinned. "If my grandfather or great-grandfather killed him, they probably put up a show about it. I don't think a lot of people know about Adrealphus. But I think I once heard Mother say the Fawcett girl had a daughter. It was  _years_  ago, though. That daughter probably had kids of her own and everything. I don't know anything else about it."

"Do you know the Fawcett girl's name?"

"She's probably dead," Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Like I said, we didn't really talk about it."

Astoria frowned down at the tapestry, and the Malfoys glared at her intermittently from their appearing and disappearing portraits. Andrealphus in particular seemed to be scowling with rebellious vehemence, but maybe that was just because she now knew his story. The Ministry had to keep records of the births in those years, especially from such prominent Wizarding families, notwithstanding the scandal that had surrounded them. The child must have carried the Malfoy name, and that would have been impossible to hide…

Unless Andrealphus' lover had decided to have her daughter carry her own name instead, which would make sense if she was being threatened by Abraxas and his father. So there was a Fawcett, somewhere along the line, that had Malfoy blood in them. And that would shed a lot of light in the situation Draco currently found himself in.

Straightening, she moved to roll up the tapestry again and held Andrealphus' gaze as his image faded into the dark green velvet.

…

The  _Daily Prophet_ headquarters was possibly the last place she wanted to find herself in, so Astoria opted for  _Flourish and Blotts_ , which was only a few steps down the North Side road of Diagon Alley. The shopkeeper gave her a strange look as she walked in, probably recognizing her from the newspapers and trying to pin down  _why_ , so she made her way to the back, checking the large clock that hung overhead as she did and hoping that Justin Finch-Fletchley wouldn't let her down.

He didn't. Only a few seconds later, as she was pretending to be interested in a book with a title she hadn't even read, the bell over the door rang and Justin stepped in, offering a polite smile to the shopkeeper and making his way around the shelves, discreetly looking around for her. She gave him a silent wave and he was quickly at her side, mercifully hidden from any inquisitive eyes that might wander into the book shop.

"Hey," he said, looking a bit worried. Astoria almost felt bad for making him meet her there, and even more so considering what she was about to ask him to do, but there wasn't really anything else she  _could_  do. "You sure you don't want to meet in the  _Cauldron_  or something?"

"Too many people," she said with a sheepish grimace. "I'm sorry for interrupting your work, I know it's probably a busy day for you."

"It's all right," he said with a grin. "It's kind of nice to get out of that office and get some fresh air. Also, I'm curious about why you wanted to meet me here."

"Well, firstly," she said, feeling more awkward by the minute. "You can't tell Macmillan—Ernie—that we've spoken, or about anything I'm about to speak to you about."

Justin frowned. She could see him debating as to whether or not it was a good idea to agree to continue the conversation, and felt almost painful regret. It wasn't fair to him or to Macmillan to do this, especially not after they had welcomed her so kindly into their group of friends only a few days ago. But there was nothing else she could do, and she was desperate for help.

He nodded reluctantly. "Go ahead."

She bit her lip, glancing around them to make sure nobody was watching. The shop was almost completely empty, the wizard at the counter having retreated to the book he had been reading before she had entered. "I know you said you have nothing to do with the actual reporters of the  _Prophet_ , but I know you have connections. And I'm a bit desperate for a particular piece of information which I intend to use wisely. I know the  _Prophet_  reporters have probably picked up on it, and are just keeping it under wraps because the Ministry won't give them permission to publish what they know, but they probably have pictures to release later—if anything, at least through  _Witch Weekly,_  because I know they're affiliated."

"Astoria, you know I'd love to help you," Justin said slowly. "But I don't want to lose my job, and if the Ministry's keeping something under wraps then it's probably for good reason…"

"You won't lose your job," she replied quickly. "It's not that bad. I'm not going to make this information public; I just need to send a letter, or at the very least know the name of a city where I can enquire as to an address—"

Justin hummed thoughtfully, still frowning, though he didn't seem as irritated as she had been concerned he might be. Macmillan really had the  _best_  friends. "I guess I could; I know you're a good person and I do think I could trust you. I'm a bit uncomfortable with getting involved with anything like this, but…" he sighed and shook his head, making a face. "I guess if it's an address, then it's probably a bit easier to find, as long as it's not, like, top secret information and I don't have to break any laws or anything. If you say the  _Prophet_  knows about it already…" he looked at her in askance. "What address are you looking for?"

She bit down harder on her lip and braced herself for his reaction. Offering him a rather uncomfortable smile, she glanced around them once more to make sure no one was looking.

"Harry Potter's whereabouts," she answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I'd update on time! Next chapter is one of my favourites, so I'll hopefully have it out within the next few weeks. We're at around the last third of the story, now, so I'm very excited for the next chapters. Thank you for your lovely reviews, I hope you take the time to leave one on this chapter as well :)


	23. Chapter 23

"Master Draco—"

"Yes, I know," Draco snapped at the Elf, waving a hand, his eyes still shut as he lay drowsily on the couch. "Let her in."

He'd been wondering at what time Astoria would arrive. She had left the day before telling him that she might be too busy to stop by, and that if she did, it would likely be very late. He hadn't minded; it wasn't like they usually followed office hours or anything anyway.

So he busied himself with trying to recall exactly what the dream he had had during his nap was of. It was likely a nightmare, but it hadn't been nearly as terrifying as the ones in the past weeks had been. He must have fallen asleep on the couch very late the night before, and as he opened one eye, he could see his lunch sitting abandoned on a table nearby, probably long grown cold. Stretching on the soft surface of the couch with a groan, he rubbed awareness back into his eyes. He had to get up; Astoria would be in the room shortly and it wouldn't do to look  _quite_  as pathetic as he did, sleeping in the sitting room when he was perfectly capable of walking to his own room. He didn't even really have a near-death experience to use as an excuse, this time.

As he sat up and tried to rub the wrinkles out of his grey shirt, reaching out to take a drumstick from the cold plate on the tray nearby, he wondered what news Astoria would bring. She had seemed terribly intent on something after examining his family tree, and he was more than a little curious as to what it all had to do with his case. All that time in the library must have amounted to  _something_.

Then again, he  _did_  have only one task of his own to do: one he had failed at completely, so far.

Still, he was rather looking forward to Astoria's appearance that morning. Which was why he was more than a little surprised when Blaise Zabini arrived at the doorway and surveyed him with one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised, a bemused smirk on his dark features.

"Well, you've sunk quite low, haven't you, Malfoy."

Draco could do little more than stare for a moment, before dropping the drumstick back onto his plate and grimacing with confusion. "The hell are you doing here, Zabini?"

Blaise's smirk didn't disappear—if anything, it only widened as he stepped into the room, hands in the pockets of his expensive tailored robes, looking around at his surroundings. "Thought I'd come to visit you."

"I thought you were in Germany."

"I was. I'm back now."

Draco actually  _spluttered_ , which was completely deplorable but really quite understandable. He hadn't seen Zabini in  _years_ —what with all the trials and Zabini's eventual run from the country after he and his mother were cleared of all charges, they had never crossed paths, and in truth Draco had never expected to see him again, at least not within the next ten years. He couldn't think of any reason for why Zabini would ever want to step foot in Britain again. He said so.

The other wizard shrugged. "Mother has a house here, and her husband just died a month back, so we've got quite a substantial amount of money, and it's more sensible to handle it all here. There really is no reason  _not_  to come back. Germany was more of a…  _holiday_ , so to speak."

Draco could think of  _plenty_  of reasons to not return, but he supposed there was no use in voicing them. "How did you get in here? I'm under house arrest."

"Mother has friends who have friends," was his casual reply. "I don't suppose you still have that excellent Malfoy wine, do you? I've been craving it for ages."

"When did you even try it?" The last time Zabini was likely to have set foot in Malfoy Manor had been when they were all fourteen and Lucius Malfoy was hosting large parties to invite all the politicians and powerful families of the country—and they'd been  _fourteen_ , for Merlin's sake.

"Pansy snuck into your cellars during a Christmas party," Blaise grinned. "I don't know how she managed it, but the wine is good. We got drunk in the pantry."

Well,  _he_  certainly didn't remember that, but he supposed it was too late to get offended at being shunned as a fourteen year old. He'd been something of an arse at that age, anyway.

"I've got scotch," he finally offered, because even though there  _was_  that bottle of Malfoy wine collecting cobwebs in the old ballroom, he inexplicably wasn't ready to produce it just yet. There was just something about it. It just wasn't right.

Blaise nodded, and Draco called Ollie with a snap of his fingers, ordering the Elf to bring them drinks. It was morning, but then again they were both Slytherins who had somehow survived the War, albeit one less intact than the other, and he supposed that it was a good enough excuse to drink hard liquor at noon in one's house with an old classmate.

As Blaise took a seat on a chair nearby, looking surprisingly comfortable despite being completely at odds with the sort of situations Draco had become accustomed to being in in that very room, Draco quickly noted that he looked even better off than he had before the war. It probably came with growing up somewhat in those years, and to be honest, Draco hadn't really paid Blaise much attention ever since his father had ended up in Azkaban. There had been too much to think about at the time.

He and Blaise had never been close friends, despite seeing each other at nearly every Pureblood occasion, since Mrs. Zabini was something of an important personage in wizarding society and it would be social suicide to not invite her to every single event. As Ollie brought them drinks and they shared a silent toast, Draco wondered what exactly Blaise had gone through in the War. He knew for a fact that the Zabinis hadn't been directly involved in anything; if they had been involved at all, then they had done a better job of covering it up than Pansy and Daphne had. Mrs. Zabini was clever enough to worm her way out of any situation, and that had probably worked in their favor.

As it was, Blaise looked well put together and utterly serene as he set down his glass, crossing his arms in front of him. "Look, Malfoy," he began slowly. "I know I wasn't here when shit hit the fan, and I know it probably would've been to your advantage if I had. We were all alone when it was all over, and… well, I guess the whole  _Slytherins look after our own_  thing was sort of bullshit."

Draco knew what he was trying to say. It wasn't exactly an apology, but it was the closest he had ever thought he would get from anyone in his House whom he had expected to be there, to act as a witness, to at least  _speak_  to him while his father was being dragged off to Azkaban a second time and his mother had fallen unfathomably silent, with him forced to sell his possessions to just let them still have a place to live in.

Now, as Blaise's dark eyes surveying Draco with a sort of guarded apology, Draco reflected that he might have been better off if he had made a greater effort to get to know Zabini in school.

He shrugged, and knew that the small gesture was enough of a reply in Blaise's eyes. "It was always bullshit," he drawled, and drained his glass.

"Doesn't have to be."

Draco looked up as he set the glass down. Blaise was gazing at him seriously, a slight look of satisfaction in his eyes as he realized that he had caught Draco's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Blaise said, fingers forming a triangle as he touched the tips of his fingers. "Like I said, Mother and I have recently come across quite a fortune, which can be advantageous for us at this point if we find a way to invest it. I thought I'd stop by and ask you to consider an option."

Sally Coulson's letter was back on Draco's mind in an instant, Mulpepper's grin seeming to emerge from the shadows around the doorway beyond. He frowned. "Father's apothecary hardly exists anymore, if that's what you mean," he said warily. "There've been… complications."

"I know the Ministry took most of the Malfoy fortune; that's common knowledge at this point," Blaise said breezily, as if he hadn't understood what Draco had said. Draco gulped down the taste of embarrassment—the Malfoy family hadn't been an object of pity like this for as long as its name had existed. "And yeah, there might be easier causes to finance—I know Mother's had her eye on the Flint business for a while; but I've got faith, I guess you could say, in this idea. You've still got the contacts and all the resources but the financial ones—I'd say it's worth a shot."

Draco snorted. "And then what: _Malfoy & Zabini's_?"

"That's an idiotic name. I'm sure we could come up with better."

"It's an idiotic  _idea_ —I'm on the road to Azkaban right now, and you're making  _business proposals_?"

Blaise shrugged, a slight grin on his lips. "We've all always been on the road to Azkaban. It's not really breaking news at this point."

Frowning as he tried to grasp the full weight of Blaise's offer, Draco twirled the empty glass between his fingers and ran what little he had managed to learn of his father's apothecary chain in the past years through his mind. "It's more complicated than you think," he said presently. "I haven't had the money to properly deal with anything for a while, and this whole trial thing hasn't exactly helped. Like I said, there've been complications. The Mulpeppers have been stealing from our Fluxweed plantation."

"Get it back, then," Blaise said simply.

"Don't you think I would've done that already if I could?" Draco snapped. "The Ministry's never going to listen to me if I take something like that up with them; I'll be in prison in a few weeks anyway, if everything goes their way. And Fluxweed's mostly used for Polyjuice Potion—they're not going to like it if we're still the leading name selling it."

"Malfoy Fluxweed's always been known to be the best brand," Blaise said. "You won't make it without Fluxweed."

Draco glared at him. "I  _know_  that, Zabini. Hence my inability to do anything about it."

"You could threaten him."

"With  _what_? The Ministry's not going to do anything about it, and I don't exactly have my father's following anymore. There's nothing for me to threaten him  _with_."

Blaise fell silent, expression contemplative as he finished his drink. "Do you still have the business paperwork? Sales and such?"

"I suppose so. It's in Father's study."

"Well, then."

Going through Lucius Malfoy's study was a nerve-wracking experience, especially now that Draco knew where the things Nott had planted in the Manor were. Zabini didn't comment on the state of disarray of the place, merely following him to the drawers where the paperwork was kept. In the aftermath of the War, when he realized that there were still things he needed to tackle regarding the family business, Draco had attempted to go through it all to understand what he could. Lucius had been of little help there—prison had kept his mind set on very few problems, the largest of which was his insistence that Draco not take a side. He had never trusted his son to deal with apothecary or political matters, and there was little that he  _could_  have explained properly, anyway, what with the limited contact they had.

Draco clenched his jaw, trying to relax his violent pulse as he extracted the files he needed. Nott's presence seemed to linger there, a dark cloud hovering above the artifacts that were stored in the hole near the fallen tapestry. The snake eyes, less bright in the sunlight that came in through the study windows, still hadn't lost any of their strange vigilant spirit, and he could feel the familiar surge of overwhelming desperation lingering at the back of his mind, threatening to take over if he stayed there much longer.

At his side, Blaise didn't seem to notice anything, merely taking what was left of the files and following Draco as he hastily left the study, making his way to the sitting room and trying not to feel the burning pain of the invisible scars that he hadn't felt in a while—had it really only been a few days? The corridors were suffocating, but he was very aware of Blaise's presence; it wouldn't do to lose it, not now.

He forced himself to breathe.

The information in the documents they had retrieved slowly began to make more sense as they went through them one by one, Lucius Malfoy's neat handwriting detailing sales and expenses, prices and deals he had made. A separate folder had notes that were harder to understand, since they pertained to particular negotiations Lucius seemed to have carried out individually, and very discreetly—it didn't surprise either of them, and Draco was a bit startled to realize that he didn't mistrust Zabini in the least with the confidential information. Maybe the last years had put everything in perspective to such a degree, and he had already lost so much, that he didn't have much energy left to suspect or care about what Blaise could do to hurt him.

It was about half an hour later that Zabini suddenly stopped, his finger halting over the center of a page. Draco looked up from the numbers he had been examining.

"It's Travis Mulpepper, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Did you find anything?"

"Well, he seems like a bastard," Blaise put bluntly, and slid the parchment over to Draco so that he could read. "I think there's something here that might interest us."

Draco looked it over. "I don't understand."

Blaise smirked. "Maybe  _you_  can't threaten Mulpepper, what with your situation, but now I have a reason to—and I think that together, we could make something of a lasting impression."

…

When Astoria finally did arrive, it came as something of a surprise, for multiple reasons. Firstly, Draco had spent the last few hours just sitting in the couch staring at the wall in a mix of shock and satisfaction—he had never expected to see Zabini, much less have Zabini visit him in order to offer him help. A partnership had never occurred to him, because it carried the implication that someone would  _want_  to have something to do with him in the first place, which the War had made pretty clear would be very hard to achieve.

And yet, here he was.

The second reason Astoria's arrival came as a surprise to him was because of the state in which she arrived. She didn't look bad—slightly windswept, that was it, and there was a distinctly darker tone to her skin that looked almost as if she had spent the day at a beach or something, which was inconceivable. As she approached the fire, he wondered if it had just been her imagination.

"So," he said as a greeting. "How did it go?"

Astoria started a little, as if she hadn't come to see him in the first place. "Oh," she said quickly. "Er—well, I suppose."

Draco had to hold back a grin of amusement at her distraction. "Are you going to tell me what exactly 'it' was? You left in a hurry yesterday."

She shook her head and seemed to find her footing again, walking across the room primly and settling down in her customary seat beside him, pulling out a box from somewhere in her bag. She must have charmed it. "It doesn't matter. I don't know if it'll work anyway, so I'll spare you the disappointment. How has your day been?" She set the box on the table with a small smile. "I brought pie."

"Please don't tell me you spent the whole bloody day just to find pie."

Astoria looked mockingly offended. "Draco, I'm a professional."

He snorted. "Right."

Maybe he hit a nerve, he realized, as a strange sort of tension settled down over them. He cursed internally; he shouldn't have said anything—especially not after what had happened, because  _that_  had been  _distinctly_  unprofessional. She had gotten a tan, he was sure of it now, or at any rate her cheeks were lightly tinged red—or was she blushing? No, she wouldn't blush. His eyes flit over her face suspiciously while she wasn't looking, and he cleared his throat lightly to try and dissipate the sudden unexplainable strain in the conversation.

"Blaise Zabini came over."

Her eyebrows shot up and she straightened in her seat. "How did he get in?" she exclaimed sharply.

"Relax, Greengrass," he admonished, realizing as he said it that it had been a while since he had referred to her by her last name—or was the distinction made only in his mind? "He didn't attack me or anything."

She sighed and opened the cardboard box, revealing a frankly delicious looking pie. He suddenly realized that he hadn't had lunch. "But still—the Aurors aren't doing their job."

"Is that even a surprise at this point?"

She hummed noncommittally.

"Anyway," he stated pointedly. "He wants to work as my partner and bring the Malfoy business back to life. He's got money, I've got the supplies. It could work."

He realized as he said it that he had never confided in her the entire Mulpepper situation. He hadn't even mentioned it yet, in fact. But he also realized, as she looked at him with the same mix of shock and tentative interest he himself had displayed as he discovered that Zabini's plan might actually be somewhat promising, that it was a problem that didn't matter; it didn't deserve his or her time. It wouldn't be a problem for much longer.

The thought threw a wave of relief over him that was so incredibly strong, so satisfying, that he was stricken by the epiphany that it had been a very long time, years even, since he had felt anything remotely related to his sort of tranquility, the serenity that came with finding that one's problems did indeed have a solution.

Astoria was staring at him with a little smile on her lips. He belatedly took notice of the fact that she had spoken. He reached up and rubbed his forehead, shaking his head. "Say that again? I-—"

But she never got to repeat what she had said, because there was suddenly a loud shriek that echoed throughout the Manor, sounding so chilling and eerie in the otherwise quiet house that they both froze.

Astoria moved closer to him so quickly that it must have been instinctive, reaching out to seize his wrist with her warm fingers. "Don't go alone," she whispered.

He frowned, heart racing. Was Creevey back? He wouldn't dare... or would he? There had been plenty of other people with him last time—

But Astoria was already rising, pulling out her wand, fingers still clutching his arm. Draco rose behind her and followed her quietly out of the room, trying to move to walk ahead of her as they left the sitting room.

"Don't be an idiot," she hissed, gesturing towards her wand and giving him a scathing glare.

She was right. He was pretty much useless without his wand, and either way she didn't give him much of an option, taking the lead. The noise had come from downstairs, Draco was sure of it, and Astoria seemed to silently agree, feet completely silent as she made her way towards the stairs. He saw that she was barefoot; she must have left her shoes by the couch.

He felt terribly unprepared for a fight, and all the more powerless in the knowledge that if Astoria was attacked there was hardly anything he could do about it.

Maybe it was in his head, but he thought he could hear voices coming from the drawing room. A shiver shattered through his spine, and he stopped short in the middle of the staircase. Astoria turned to look at him, and it took all the strength in his body and mind to force himself to continue. But the drawing room—if she heard the voices, then they must have been real, not just memories like the ones he had had for so long before now. And yet, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, he could already hear the particles of glass crashing to the ground, feel Aunt Bellatrix's hand tearing his hair, feel the scars on his face and the endless swirling of red eyes...

Astoria's fingers clenched around his wrist, pulling him back into reality. Could she feel his pulse? Maybe she could—her eyes were wide as she glanced at him, and he could swear her index finger made its way down to his palm, stroking his skin, bringing warmth back into his flesh.

His heart contracted.

"DRACO!"

He felt his muscles tense violently, his breath escaping him. He could feel the scars, feel them acutely, feel the glass tear through his face, feel that horrible breath of death all around him, hear his mother's shrieks. But Astoria was real, and her hand was an anchor, and he forced himself to see, to hear, to ground himself in the reality that demanded his attention. The voice had been familiar, and despite the initial scare, it did not belong to Bellatrix. It was Pansy's voice.

He drew a shaking breath. "What the fuck, Parkinson."

The blonde woman emerged from drawing room, satin robes billowing around her as she dragged Daphne Greengrass along behind her. Astoria stopped sharply before the doorway, and Draco belatedly saw the particles of dusty glass that would have cut her if they had gone into the room.

All the better; he didn't intend on having any sort of conversation in there.

Pansy's pale face was tense, her features pulled into a scowl. "Hi," she said scathingly, eyes flitting from Draco to Astoria to the way in which Astoria was holding his wrist—nearly his hand, at this point. Astoria let go abruptly. A slight smirk graced Pansy's lips and Draco felt his bubbling emotions slowly change course and head towards the annoyed spectrum.

"What are you doing here?" Astoria demanded, more defensively than Draco had expected her to react. "He's under house arrest; he can't receive visitors without Ministry authorisation."

Pansy snorted dismissively. "I can go wherever I want. Don't spew your Ministry talk at me, Greengrass. Draco owes me an answer and I demand it. Now."

Draco saw Astoria's gaze move to her sister, who stood behind her friend looking uncomfortable. A look crossed between them, and when Astoria turned back to Pansy, there was an unforgiving harshness to her expression.

"You can wait until we've made a decision, and I will contact you. Breaking into people's houses—"

"Shut up!" Pansy exclaimed suddenly, hands flying up to her head. For the first time, Draco recognized a look of acute desperation in his childhood friend's eyes. "I'm not here to talk to you. Draco."

Draco's jaw clenched. "Don't talk to her like that."

"Oh, please. Just because you're shagging her doesn't mean you need to get all moody—this is too serious to mess around and I'm tired of you avoiding me. Do we have a deal or not?"

Swallowing down the multitude of words he wanted to shoot back at her and pointedly avoiding meeting Astoria's eye, Draco stepped forwards. "She told you. We haven't decided yet."

Daphne had inched closer to Astoria, free of Pansy's grip. Pansy let out an almost animalistic growl. "You're stalling, Draco. And it's  _so_  like you; it makes me sick. How hard of a decision is it? We'll testify for you—there's nothing to decide!" She gestured towards Astoria. "Didn't you ask me to do it like a week ago? I'll do it now; hell, Daphne'll do it too."

"I told you," Astoria snapped. "Draco's credibility could be compromised—"

"Fuck Draco's credibility," Pansy shot back, eyes still fixed on Draco's, her entire frame shaking slightly with anger. "I need this—we need this. And you need this. I'm not going to prison over something stupid I was pressured into doing as a kid; I'm not putting myself through that and I'm not putting my husband through that." She glared at Astoria. "And Daphne doesn't deserve it either, stupid as she is."

Daphne didn't seem to dare protest.

Draco ground his teeth. Nott seemed to smile from the flickering light in the room behind Pansy. They must have entered through Floo, likely having managed it somehow through Julien Prince's Ministry connections. He felt his fingers clench instinctively, his heart pounding. The glass glittered in the red light, seeming to shine unnatural, unrelated green in his mind.

He couldn't give away that he was thinking of accusing Nott. He couldn't. And yet there was a certain desperation to Pansy, the way she was shaking, the corners of her lips trembling with the sort of barely suppressed fear that he had never seen in her before. It had been an extremely long time since he had seen her, he realized—they had sent letters, yes, but those had grown progressively more scathing as time wore on. And yet, he didn't feel like she had changed at all, even though she was now two years older and considerably more grown, a married woman, living a completely different life.

But she still had the eyes of a schoolgirl, the soft lines which she had always tried to intensify with glamor charms, the guarded eyes that had kept her insecurities under lock and key and which he had always somehow seen through, ever since they had been nine years old. He remembered what it had been like to play with her, still, when she had been a carefree, mischievous child who didn't give a damn about what people thought of her. He remembered when she had been ten, crying over her parents' fights, and he hadn't know what to do—he was only a boy, after all; a boy who had never had to deal with that sort of drama. Pansy had grown up faster than he had, had gone through things he knew she never confided to anyone, not even to him. And yet here they were.

Somehow, they had survived. They had survived everything.

Pansy flinched, eyes leaving his for a split second. Did she know what he had been thinking? Had she seen the pity in his eyes?

Pansy had never liked pity.

And before he could think about it more, he suddenly reached out, seizing Pansy's upper arms and half-pushing, half-pulling her until she had her back against the wall besides the drawing room doorway, his face dangerously close to hers. She was trembling, still—he could feel it.

"Let me leave something abundantly clear, Pansy," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't owe you shit."

She was gulping down tears, he could tell. She was good at hiding it, but he could tell. He had always been able to tell. "We've been friends since we were kids! Slytherins—"

Draco let out a harsh laugh. It rang through the corridors long after he had fallen silent. "What, I should help you out of some misguided sense of House loyalty? We're not in school anymore." His gaze burned down at her with fury, and suddenly all the anger he had been building towards her for years came up boiling to the surface. Zabini had come back; Zabini had offered him help. There was something in it for him, yes, but he would never have dared come to him the way Pansy did now—and he and Zabini had never even been close friends as he and Pansy had been. "Don't think that I've forgotten," he said through gritted teeth, and as he spoke he felt his throat tightening with rage, twisting him painfully. "How you threw me to the dogs as soon as things got hard; how you turned on me and refused me help even when you had nothing to lose. How you left me behind-—me, when there was a time when I was all you had—and went off to live your same old comfortable life with your rich husband and your Ministry influence while I was left here to rot alone for  _two_   _fucking_   _years_! Don't you  _dare_  think that I've forgotten."

And the tears in her eyes did spill out at that. Slowly, and maybe unnoticeable to anyone further away than where Draco stood, but they did, and Draco felt a surge of bitter satisfaction at her emotion. "I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me," he said. "Don't you fucking dare. We both know the truth; don't make yourself look any more pathetic than you already do."

Pansy fell silent, her breath escaping her nose in short, violent gusts.

Draco swallowed down his nausea, the tightness in his throat sore and jarring. He pressed a fist to the wall behind Pansy, forcing his voice to return. Finally, he spoke in a low, calm voice. "But yeah. You both get to testify. Daphne, because she deserves a chance. You, out of the kindness of my fucking heart."

And with that, he pushed off from the wall, stepping away from her as if he'd been stung, unable to speak. He looked up to see Astoria watching him; he had almost forgotten that she'd been there the whole time.

Behind him, Pansy drew a shuddering breath, eyes downcast.

"All right," Astoria said in a low voice which somehow still managed to be sharp. Draco looked away, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, his voice now strangled by the weight of it all pushing down on him. "You can go now."

He didn't watch as they left, hearing a low murmur of voices as Astoria spoke to her sister, and then the familiar blinding green of the Floo network threw shards of light all over the floor and he had to jerk his head away.

"We're going upstairs," Astoria announced quietly as she reached him again, and he met her blue eyes for a full second before turning back towards the stairs. It didn't occur to him to ask until they had already reached the top landing.

"Why?"

"You need fresh air," she replied from behind him, nudging his elbow softly with her hand. "Come on."

…

Astoria opened the balcony doors shakily. It didn't matter anymore, she supposed; after all, three people had already entered the house without the Aurors doing anything about it, so she doubted a couple of open doors would do much of a difference. And though she couldn't see him from here, Draco had looked sickly pale, shaking slightly when he had moved to sit on the barstool at her instruction.

The doors were considerably less dusty this time than when Draco had first shown them to her, but she still had to struggle with the weight of them. She wondered, rather fitfully, if she was overreacting—but when she turned around, her back towards the night sky outside, and a cool breeze wafted through the large, long-enclosed ballroom, making its way over to where Draco sat hunched and ruffling his hair slightly, making her feel  _alive_  and maybe not quite so bewildered at the situation and everything that had just happened with Pansy…

He didn't look up at her when she returned.

Astoria wasn't surprised; she knew Draco hated looking weak, and though the words he had addressed to Pansy, his manner,  _everything_ , had been rough and bordering on violent rage, there had been a certain vulnerability to the entire exchange and she couldn't help feeling like she had intruded, somehow, in an deeply intimate moment between Draco and his childhood friend—between Draco and his past.

So she didn't break the silence. His eyes were hidden from her, his head downcast, and she looked around the room, searching. Most of the lights hadn't turned on as they had made their way up to the ballroom, and Astoria wondered if the Manor could sense Draco's emotions, darkness settling around them just as it had settled in his mood.

There were bottles of drinks behind the bar, mostly broken. The only clean things she could find were many half-empty bottle of scotch, which she swiftly dismissed—she knew Draco drank too much of it anyway, and the last thing she wanted to do now was to propel him into a spiral of memories. She moved about quietly, intent on not disturbing him.

When he finally looked up, she was pouring them drinks. He didn't look at the glass she slid across to him, only held her gaze.

"It's done," she said quietly, as if any louder noise might disturb the peaceful night. Another breeze filled the room and Draco, framed against the starlight, looked darkly enigmatic.

"It's not done," he scoffed, his voice escaping him rather hoarsely. "I just brought down problems on us, again."

"No, you didn't," she replied. "You made a decision—that's a good thing.  _Great_ , in fact. At least the pressure's gone." Leaving the bar, she crossed over to his side and sat on the barstool in front of him, very much mirroring the first time they had met in that very house. Draco tapped his fingers lightly against the wood, brow furrowed.

"What about Nott? Am I going to testify against him?"

She bit her lip, turning to look at the balcony beyond, as if the fresh air might provide them with some modicum of peace. "You don't have to decide  _now_."

He let out a low growl. "Then  _when?_  The trial's on Friday! I can't just— _fuck_." He sighed, reaching up to rub his face with his hands. "I shouldn't've told Pansy yes; if it's going to be  _me_  who implicates Nott, I'll be a bloody hypocrite."

"That doesn't matter, Draco. This is about  _you_  and giving  _you_ a chance—"

"Exactly," he hissed. "And what chance is that? A chance to get cleared and keep my massive fucking  _empty_ house and—" he broke off, jaw clenching.

Astoria didn't understand. She hesitated at the brink of answering, afraid that whatever she might say might make him feel any worse. Their glasses sat on the bar beside him, neglected. "Yes," she said tentatively. "You'd be free."

Draco snorted. " _Free_." He scowled. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't," she replied slowly. "I—"

"Should I do it?" he interrupted.

Astoria sighed tiredly, utterly bewildered. "Do  _what_?"

"Say his name in court. Tell them what he's done."

"I already told you, I can't—"

"I don't  _care_ , Astoria!" he suddenly exclaimed, and she started, unused to the tone of desperation in his voice. His eyes were wide, his hands clenched into fists as he looked at her, and she thought that she probably ought to be frightened—she had never seen him act like this, especially not towards  _her_ , but then again it didn't seem like the emotions were directed towards her and more like he was clinging to her, somehow, like he  _needed_ her. "Just tell me. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

She slid off the barstool, standing. "Draco, calm down."

"I can't calm down! I can't! I need to make a decision, and I can't—I just—just tell me what to do, Astoria." He swallowed. " _Please_."

Reaching out sideways, she brought her hand to rest over his wrist, her fingers moving to stroke his skin. And it was soothing; she could see the violent tension in his body fade slightly, and couldn't bring herself to stop, despite how inappropriate it was, according to a forgotten voice in the back of her mind. His hot skin and forcefully tensed muscles melded with hers, and she took a breath.

But before she could say anything, he spoke again, his words tumbling out of his mouth as if he couldn't quite hold them back. "See?" he said in a low voice, through gritted teeth. "That's—that's why I can't."

She frowned, and her fingers stopped the stroking of his inner wrist; looking up at him, she saw that he was watching her with a dark, visibly pained expression. "I don't understand."

"Can you honestly say," he murmured, and despite the vast room around them and the towering open balcony doors, it felt like the space they were in was enclosed,  _secret_. "That if I accused Nott, and he revealed what your sister did, and she had to go to Azkaban for her crimes while I was cleared… can you honestly say that if that happened, you would ever touch me again like you're doing now?"

And suddenly all the doubt in his voice, all the pain and desperation became abundantly clear to her; the  _problem_ , exposed and voiced for the first time, validated after days of being kept buried inside her skull, a secret she wouldn't dare even admit to herself, finally expressed out loud. And Draco's lips were trembling ever so slightly—she could see it, being as close as she was—and his hand was still warm against her wrist. Yet she couldn't give him a proper answer, because she didn't know the answer herself.

It was too unfair, to put them both in a situation like this, where it had somehow become a matter of  _choice_ … a matter of what was right, and what was  _dubiously_ right, and what  _felt_  right but might be wrong. She wished intensely that she could say  _I can_ , that she could say  _It wouldn't matter to me_ , but she couldn't—because she didn't know herself; because Daphne was not a  _choice_ , like Draco was—Daphne was  _family_ , and Draco knew that dichotomy all too well, knew it better than he knew himself.

And so, lips parted to reveal an answer she didn't know at all, she held his gaze and suddenly abandoned the mission. Because the dim lights of the ballroom and the starlight that glimmered in his eyes, wide and expectant and  _terribly afraid_ , made her own skin buzz with something she couldn't describe, something she couldn't hold back.

Her fingers circled the expanse of his inner wrist, lining the veins that paved the way up to his heart, and she watched him suppress a shiver, watched the slowly simmering realization that began in his skin spread through his nerves and make its way to his eyes—and his hand, slow and tentative, turned slightly to brush its palm against hers, slowly,  _hesitantly_ … and when Astoria reached his forearm, popped open the cufflink without daring to ask, and the movement was fast and it was a  _realization_  that she saw mapped out in his eyes as he never broke contact.

It was his left arm, and she didn't have to look to see the Dark Mark black against his pale skin, because she could feel the slightly jagged, swollen line of his scar cutting through it—she still thought about what it had been like to find him on the carpet in a pool of his own blood, and she touched it with three fingers, followed it up his arm until it faded into his skin, dismissed the Dark Mark as nothing because she could not  _feel_  it, and if she could not feel it then it didn't matter. His hand was at her elbow, steadying her as she drew closer, grasping her with a firmness that did nothing if not encourage, and now she was standing between his knees, his shirt sleeve pushed far up his arm, his eyes  _smoldering_ , and she thought she could feel his heartbeat beating in synchronization with the pulse she could feel against her skin—

And she supposed it was a decision, but it didn't  _feel_  like a decision; it felt natural, instinctual, as if this was what had been meant to happen from the very beginning, from the moment she had met him—she reached up one hand to the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against the skin of his neck, watched him swallow, watched him lean into her grasp, and suddenly didn't care that she was nearly pressed up against him between his legs, enveloped by his body, his eyes on  _fire_  and undeniably  _willing_  as she tilted her head upwards, standing on her tiptoes, eyes half-closed as her lips brushed against the underside of his jaw, his stubble rough against her lips—

And then his head had turned and his lips were on hers, pressing,  _yearning_ , his arm curving around her waist and holding her up against him, her arm hooked around his neck and his hand moving from her elbow to her jaw, stroking her in the same rhythm that his lips followed, that his tongue followed, sliding and tasting and  _taking_. Astoria's hand buried itself in his hair and for once she didn't bother making excuses—it was what it was, and he was Draco and he was warm against her, his breath hot and the kiss passionate, and suddenly there was a scrape of the stool against the floor and he was pressed against her completely, standing in front of her, her back pushed into the bar, their legs entangled and his arms enveloping her.

She let out a moan as his mouth moved off of hers, his hot breath against her jaw and her neck as he made his way down her throat, kissing and licking and letting her writhe against him, hands in his hair, the bar uncomfortable against her back—but she didn't mind,  _really_  didn't mind, couldn't even completely focus on her thoughts because his lips were now behind her ear, and his knee was between her legs—

He drew away slowly, his breath brushing against her jaw as he raised his head to look at her, one hand still cradling her neck and the other around her waist. Astoria couldn't help the small smile on her lips; it appeared too quickly for her to stop it, and she watched his eyes linger on her mouth again before he looked back up at her eyes, his chest heaving against hers.

" _Well_ ," he breathed.

She slowly stroked his shoulders and let out a low, slightly nervous laugh, suddenly hyperaware of all the places his body was touching hers.

He glanced over her shoulder and suddenly seemed to catch sight of something. "You poured us drinks."

Astoria looked amused. "Yes. You were—distracted, though."

He didn't seem to hear her. A slight frown had appeared on his face, and it took him a moment to speak again. "You opened the Superior Red," he continued in a low voice. "It's a Malfoy brew."

She glanced over her shoulder at the dusty bottle she had found by the mirror, abandoned and forgotten, its label nearly completely faded. It was different, and she had thought it might help to have a different taste to distract him, had thought that it was time someone rid the house of some of its dust-covered relics, buried under time and fear and pain...

"Should I not have?" she asked, turning back to Draco. "I'm sorry, I just thought—"

"No," he answered quickly, and he met her gaze again, his grey eyes suddenly  _different—warm_ , almost, and there was bubbling emotion there emerging through the lust in his gaze. "No, it's—it's perfect."

But he didn't drink any of it. Instead, he leaned forwards slowly and pressed his lips against hers with a softness that almost made her want to cry. She clung to him as their lips moved together, and the frantic beating of his heart against hers despite the slowness of his movements, the taste of his breath against her tongue, all  _Draco_ , all  _hers_  now, out of some unfathomable twist of fate, made emotion bloom and envelop her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… that happened.
> 
> I hope you liked it! Chapter 24 might take me a while because I have lots of projects at the moment, but I'll do my best to have it done as soon as I can. There was supposed to be a cliffhanger at the end of this one, but I decided to be nice for once, so yeah. Thanks for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

Draco sighed quietly, eyes closed, languidly dragging his nose over the line of Astoria's wrist. The feeling of her fingers in his hair was immensely relaxing, and he wondered for a moment if it would be possible to fall asleep like this, lying on his back in the middle of the Manor ballroom.

"You're tired," Astoria murmured, fingers shifting towards the line of his jaw.

Draco opened his eyes. She was smiling, legs crossed underneath her as she sat with her knees pressed to his side, the glittering of her eyes and the corner of her lips only barely visible in the shadows of the room. As the night had worn on, the lights had gone out around them, as if they knew Draco had no need for them anymore. He let his gaze drift towards the open buttons of her shirt which exposed the slender lines of her clavicles, which he could now trace by memory.

"Not tired," he said. "Just relaxed."

"Too much wine," she said wryly.

He snorted, and taking a deep breath to expel the drowsiness from his body, pushed himself onto his elbows and held her gaze. He smirked. "I don't think it's the wine."

She let out a low laugh, and he met her halfway as she leaned forwards to cover his lips with hers.

He could feel it again – the low, painful ache behind his ribs, stinging so badly at times it was almost impossible not to vocalize. But instead he pulled her closer, hoping that the sensation of her lips against his might make it go away, and make him forget that this was probably the last time he would ever get to hold her like this.

Astoria's hand left his chest and she drew back, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before moving away from his touch. His hands fell to the ground, onto the makeshift blanket they had created by spreading their robes on the ballroom floor.

"You don't have to go," he said, though he regretted saying it immediately. The words sounded empty and cheap on his tongue – too casual for the truth of what this was; what  _they_  were. It was strange to think that only some hours before, Pansy had been confronting him downstairs. The reality of what awaited them beyond the quietness of the Manor at night would have seemed utterly fictional if it weren't for the steady pain that grew in his chest, that acknowledged the dilemma that awaited him. His shoulders suddenly felt tense again, muscles coiling into themselves, as if preparing for some unknown threat.

Many questions still hovered between them, and Draco knew that they would go unanswered for the moment. He knew, quite clearly, what his mind would have named  _The Right Thing_  if Astoria had not been involved in the dilemma — he knew what he  _should_  be thinking, regardless of anything his father said. Knew, very distinctly, that he wanted to see Nott face his crimes in Azkaban after everything he had done; knew that it was his only chance at some sliver of redemption.

Somehow, even here in the ballroom where his ancestors had held their most extravagant functions, the words  _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_  had never felt more empty.

Astoria's back was straight, the curves of her shoulderblades like the silhouette of a ballerina as her eyes stared into the darkness, her body caught between leaving and lingering against his the way it had been since they had kissed by the bar.

He couldn't help imagining what her expression would look like when Nott opened his mouth and spoke Daphne's name out loud to the Wizengamot, effectively stealing her sister away from her and ensuring that she would never be able to look Draco in the eye again.

On a sudden impulse, he reached forwards and bridged the gap between them, placing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him, his cheek against the top of her head. She yielded to him so effortlessly that he wondered if she had secretly hoped he would do it. They sat there in silence, her face pressed against his collarbone, her fingers frozen between the buttons of his shirt, the edges of her nails skimming the hot skin of his chest. He tried not to shiver. He could feel her heart beating against his, and somehow knew that the tension in the air had nothing to do with their close proximity.

How would he live with himself after experiencing something like this? The feeling of being with her, of kissing her, of being allowed to keep her skin against his was not something he would relinquish freely, and certainly not something that could be stolen from his memory. And though he knew that some logical part of his brain should be cursing him for his rashness in allowing himself to care at all, he couldn't bring himself to wish it hadn't happened.

He wondered if she already knew what he would say at the trial; wondered if she was bracing herself for the act of rejecting him.

He knew, somehow, that he wouldn't put her in a position in which she would have to tell him to leave. He wouldn't be able to look her in the eyes.

Or, worse… perhaps she  _didn't_  expect him to say Nott's name. Perhaps she would view his confession as a betrayal, and his actions would only serve to paint an elaborate picture of a complicated lie. Perhaps all her memories of what they had shared together, of what they had been through together, would be tainted by the thought of a client who had only succeeded in getting her sister stolen from her forever.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Astoria finally seemed to gather her wits and moved away from him, leaving him cold and newly aware of the unforgiving hardness of the floor beneath him. She drew a deep breath and smoothed her hands over the fabric of her skirt, blinking as if to dislodge intrusive thoughts. It was only when she stood up that her grave expression gave way to a look of pointed amusement, glancing down at the robes he was sitting on.

Rolling his eyes rather childishly, he stood up and reached down to hand hers back to her, and she shook them to dislodge the accumulated dust from the ballroom floor. As he retrieved his own robes, she retreated towards the bar, her bare feet making no sound as she carried away their now empty glasses and set them on the counter.

In the gaping darkness of the room, she seemed to be the only thing that glowed, her skin reflecting the dim lights of the hallway and what little moonlight made it through the clouds outside.

He wondered if the ghosts of all his memories had watched them as they had kissed, and if the sight of her light had frightened them all away.

Draco gingerly bundled his dusty robes and tried not to shiver against the cold air that had filled the space she had just left. But Astoria was soon beside him again, her robes folded over her elbow and her arm looping through his as they walked out of the ballroom into the corridor, the warmth of her frame shielding him against the draft.

He didn't dare ask her not to leave again.

The Manor was enveloped in the same silence as usual, but to Draco the silence carried an undercurrent of foreboding, like a dream that threatens to vanish at any moment. Had things gone differently with his family and with the War, this would have been the way they would have entered parties, her arm through his as they wandered through busy, brightly-lit corridors. His mother might have cooed over the prospect of a possible engagement, and his father's voice might have taken on the upright, firm manner he reserved only for adults that he thought  _capable_.

It would have felt nothing like this, walking barefoot between the dusty walls of an empty house he was imprisoned in, seizing precious moments before they escaped them altogether.

Had things gone differently, he thought, he might have dated her.

He might have  _married_  her.

"Are you all right?" Astoria murmured.

Draco glanced down, feeling inexplicably guilty about the turn his thoughts had taken, but she wasn't looking at him. Her head was tilted against his shoulder and her eyes bored holes into the carpet ahead.

His heart shuddered, and the ache behind his ribs burned with newfound anguish, and he found himself turning suddenly and crushing his lips against hers,  _desperately_ , his hands grasping her waist so tightly he had to remind himself to loosen his grip, but she didn't seem to mind – her arms were around him in an instant, and they nearly tumbled against the wall, breathing heavily through their kisses, her body arching into him, his eyes clenched shut tightly, as if he could ward off everything that would happen in the future if he only didn't ever open them again—

There was a sudden  _crack_.

Pain spread through Draco's torso. He let out a gasp into Astoria's mouth just before he was torn away from her, heels dragging against the carpet, choking on his own breath. His back collided against the stone wall and for a moment he was completely disoriented, the blow momentarily stunning his mind into blindness, though he could  _recognize_  the situation… he  _knew_ …

Across from him, Astoria urgently fumbled with her robes.

Nott was standing in the center of the corridor, shoulders squared, wand raised. There was a certain jerkiness to Nott's movements that hadn't been there the past times they had met; a violence that was less controlled and calculated and more raw, more emotional.

Draco couldn't even shout. Panic had gripped his throat, just as whatever spell Nott had cast had knocked the air out of him. The heaviness of magic fell all about him like a stifling, intangible blanket, and he shook it off with a violent jerk of his arms before pushing off from the wall and running furiously towards Nott.

Despite being unarmed and not entirely sure how he intended to stop him, he was still able to take him by surprise. Nott stumbled as their bodies collided, but he still had the advantage. One moment, Draco was reaching to push Nott onto the ground; the next he felt as if he was being pulled away from the world, and Draco found himself turning in midair, head spinning, utterly disoriented, kicking at nothingness, until he slammed against an unfamiliar surface, ears ringing. He was being pressed face-upwards against the ceiling.

Below, Astoria had finally managed to disentangle her wand. She shot spell after spell towards Nott, but he dodged them with ease.

" _Expelliarmus,_ " he snarled. But though the robes flew out of Astoria's hand and collided with a door far down the corridor, her wand remained in her hand.

With a yell of frustration, Nott sprang forwards, and suddenly Astoria let out an loud gasp of pain.

Draco yelled, not entirely sure if he was cursing or pleading Nott to let her go, feeling impossibly far away. From where he was suspended he could only see the tops of their heads, and he was seized with terror at the thought of what Nott might do to hurt her, to hurt him  _through_  her. He was transported back to the times his own father had roughly pushed him into wardrobes or under tables when the worst of the Death Eaters approached or rumors were heard of the Dark Lord himself coming down the hall, hand shaking slightly against the tablecloth as he exchanged words with the Death Eaters he publicly proclaimed to be his closest friends.  _They'll use the boy to hurt us¸_  Lucius had told Narcissa through gritted teeth when he though Draco wasn't listening.

And they had.

Nott kicked Astoria's wand away as if it were nothing but a twig. It rolled against the wall, too far out of her reach. She was clutching her arm. Even from where he was, Draco could see the marks of Nott's fingernails carved red into her forearm; he had twisted her hand so badly she had had to choose between breaking it and keeping her grip.

If only  _he_  had kept his wand…

Grasping her by the neck, tight enough to immobilize her head against the wall but not quite tight enough to kill her, Nott dug his knee into her thigh and drew closer, his wand held up to her chest. Draco yelled against the rough ceiling, scraping his chin as he thrashed. He didn't feel it.

"I'll  _kill_  you," Nott snarled as Astoria managed to push his weight off her legs and nearly succeeded in kneeing him in the groin. There was a cut at his lip that shone with blood. The tip of his wand glowed with an unspoken spell. "I'll fucking  _kill_  you."

Draco stopped craning his neck to see and focused on pushing himself away from the wall instead. If he had kept his wand in his pocket, if he had retained the ability to  _use_  it—

He pushed his forehead against the hard ceiling, gritting his teeth, and let out a yell of frustration.

"There are wards," Astoria gasped as Nott's grip tightened. "Unforgiveable Curses — the Ministry'll know—"

"There are more ways to kill than through an Unforgiveable Curse," Nott said, his lip curled with derision. He looked up at where Draco was suspended. "Having fun up there, Malfoy? I bet you wish you weren't a bloody Squib now, don't you?"

"Get off her!" Draco shouted, his voice cracking form the effort. "Don't—"

"I  _told you_  to keep quiet!" Nott shouted up at him, and Draco felt as if something were dying inside him at the sound of Astoria's pained gasp for air when the fingers around her neck tightened reflexively. "I told you you'd have hell to pay. But I suppose I shouldn't have expected any better; the Malfoys always did think the rules didn't apply to them."

"This has nothing to do with her," Draco rasped, twisting his neck as far as he could, trying to see the expression on Astoria's face. "Let her go."

"That's not how this works. You brought her into this—"

"—she's my  _barrister_ —"

"And she'll be your  _dead_  barrister if you don't shut it," Nott snarled. "I know you told her. She's been sticking her nose in my records at the Ministry, trying to find something to pin on me." At Astoria's look of alarm, he snorted. "What? You didn't think people watched you at the Ministry? The place is a vulture's nest."

"You think this'll be kept quiet?" Astoria interrupted, and Draco got the impression that she was trying to distract Nott from looking up at him again. "I  _work_  for the Ministry. People  _are_  watching me."

"Working at the Ministry doesn't mean shit nowadays, and you know it," Nott said roughly. "Not when you're working on the Malfoys' side. I know what your boyfriend is doing. He's going to try and give my name to the Wizengamot; the  _embodiment_  of a good civilian now that his father's in Azkaban." He shot Draco a mocking glance before returning his focus to Astoria. "But Greengrass, do you know what'll happen when he does that?"

Astoria's face was nearly pressed against the wall in her effort to get away from him. His mouth was inches from her cheek. "I'll tell everyone what Daphne did," he said. "I'll tell them all about how she knew what was going on with Scrimgeour, every corpse she helped us hide, every—"

" _Shut up_ ," Astoria grit out. Her eyes were straying to where her wand was, too far out of her reach for her to grasp it.

"Your sister's almost as bad as your boyfriend," Nott spat. "And we both know how happy the other prisoners'll be to have such a pretty thing in Azkaban now that there aren't any Dementors keeping watch. If Malfoy talks, you lose  _everything_."

Even as Draco struggled against the invisible force that held him up, he thought he saw Astoria's look up at him.

"Get off me."

Suddenly her leg freed itself from his hold again, and with a Nott stumbled back slightly with a cry of pain, his grasp on Astoria's neck slackening. Violent anger flashed in his expression, and he aimed a fiery hex at her head. She ducked just as it hit the space she had just occupied, leaving a smoking, charred depression in the wall behind her.

But Nott refused to be deterred. Draco knew what was going to happen before it did, but was powerless to stop it. With a roar, Nott switched hands, and the full force of his fist collided heavily with Astoria's face.

But Draco watched it happen from where he had fallen to the ground.

His fury, now free of the constraints of Nott's curse as a result of Astoria's distraction, swelled within him. His body, though fallen from the ceiling, was revived with new energy, burning as if he had been hit by lightning. For a moment the rush was so powerful that it was almost hard to focus on the situation at hand, the fire running from his mind to his chest to the tips of his fingers, burning white-hot—

And then his mind and body connected again, and the anger — it came  _bursting_  out.

Draco reached forwards and his fingers fastened around Astoria's wand. Lifting his head, he saw slump against the wall, dazed from the force of Nott's punch; and in the moment, he didn't even think about the risk of wielding someone else's wand, or the likelihood that it might reject him. He could only focus on the anger that was boiling in his veins. His head suddenly more clear than it had felt in years, he pointed the wand at Nott.

He saw, in that instant, the vague outline of Aunt Bellatrix's eyes staring at him from one of the walls, as if she reached out to him –  _You have to_ want _it, Draco. Crucio._

He turned away from her.

The burst of magic was so powerful it sent Nott flying backwards down the corridor, colliding with the large window that shattered around him and finally fell apart, his body sailing through the air and disappearing into the darkness outside. Singed, the curtains were suspended in midair for a second before collapsing against the walls, and a strong gust of wind seemed to make the entire room shudder.

Astoria fell to her knees with her back to the wall, shaking and gasping for air. But she shook her head when Draco approached, holding a hand to her rapidly swelling cheek, jerking her head towards the window.

He didn't argue. Clenching his teeth, he chased the tingling air the curse had left behind. It had not been an Unforgiveable, though he wasn't entirely sure what it  _had_  been. The sensation had almost mimicked the rush of his childhood magic, which he had barely even remembered. And now Bellatrix's eyes were gone, and no voices were whispering in the rafters.

Outside, the air was cold but suddenly still, as if the gardens were waiting with baited breath.

No Aurors came. Draco hadn't expected them to. There was no sign of Nott; but in the silence of the night, Draco heard the distinct sound of someone Disapparating beyond the line of trees that marked the edges of the Warded property. He felt suddenly as is they were being watched, the words Nott had told Astoria ringing almost demonic in the emptiness.

He turned back to Astoria.

She was still on the floor, a hand pressed to her cheek, bruises beginning to be visible around her neck and arm. As he knelt beside her his heart seemed to catch up with him, and the initial rush of triumph at being able to produce magic almost felt as it had never existed.

Draco reached up to touch her, and then glanced at the arm she was still holding against her chest.

"It's not broken," Astoria said rather shakily, answering his unspoken question, and slowly rolled her wrist. She glanced at the window, alarm still etched on her features. "Is he—?"

"He's gone."

Her jaw clenched, and he saw her wince with pain after the movement. Draco did his best to stifle the anger that rose within him. How  _dare_  Nott punch her—

"That's the third time today."

She was still looking at the window. Draco swallowed. "You need to go to St. Mungo's."

Astoria turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes glistened with tears of frustration. "And tell them what?"

He didn't know how to answer that.

…

They finally got to their feet again, Draco's arm around her waist, though she knew his entire body must be hurting after suffering such a fall. He was lucky the corridor ceiling wasn't anywhere near as high as the ballroom rafters were. The thought of what might have happened if Nott had encountered them earlier, while they were still lying on the floor engrossed in each other...

Draco summoned Ollie as soon as they reached his bedroom, and the Elf was a flurry of activity, ensuring Narcissa's safety and then quickly retrieving what remained of the Essence of Dittany that Astoria had used to heal Draco's wounds almost exactly a week ago. Astoria sank onto the soft surface of the large bed, trying not to wince. She knew her face was bleeding; the Dittany would help with the swelling but she would have to find something to remove the bruises before the trial.

So would Draco, she realized, watching him as he leaned over the bottle and turned to speak to his House-Elf. There was a jagged, reddened patch on his face where his skin had been scraped off by the ceiling in his efforts to get to her.

She wondered vaguely how many more times he would be injured before the trial was over.

The thought of the looming end made her stomach clench with anxiety.

Draco was frowning, his normal expression of barely-suppressed frustration now turned to genuine concern. His hands shook slightly as Astoria leaned back against the soft cushions. She wondered, oddly, what her mother would think if she saw her now, propped up on her client's bed with injuries that would have made her parents shriek with horror. It was likely that they would never know; she wasn't even sure when had been the last time she had had a proper, civil conversation with both of them.

The House-Elf was gone; the room was silent except for Draco's movements as he rather clumsily poured Dittany onto a gauze of some sort. It occurred to her that he had probably never done this before, much less for anyone else.

When Draco approached her cautiously, gauze in hand, she let her fingers linger on his forearm.

He stopped short as if she had burned him.

"What?" he snapped, a bit more abrupt than he probably intended.

She allowed herself a smile slightly despite the strain it put on her face. "You did it. Magic, I mean."

He swallowed. "Yeah, well," he suddenly occupied himself with steadying the small bottle of Dittany at his side, not looking at her. "It's about time."

She said nothing more after that.

He began to apply the liquid to the cuts on Astoria's face, neck and arm. She could feel the wounds closing as they came in contact with it, though the contact stung. He seemed to waver between being too gentle and too forceful, hesitant in his inexperience when it came to healing, but she didn't complain. It was going to hurt anyway, and there was something almost pleasurable about being close to him like this, his brow furrowed as he examined her for evidence of more wounds, his touch unsure. It felt strangely more intimate than anything else that had happened that night.

Draco didn't seem to have noticed that he himself was injured until Astoria sat up and reached for another piece of gauze, grasping his shoulder and lifting herself onto her knees so that she could see his jaw and nose properly. He was still as a statue under her touch, not meeting her gaze. There was a look in his eyes that unnerved her – mostly because she thought she might understand it.

"You need to set up better wards around the house," she said once she had finished.

"You know I can't do that. House arrest. It's on the Ministry's terms, not mine."

Astoria sighed and crossed her legs underneath her. The swelling on her face was already receding, and she felt slightly more normal, though her neck ached and parts of her cheek still stung when she moved, but the sting of her own guilt was much more piercing, pooling treacherously in her stomach. The confrontation she had had with Weasley at St. Mungo's was replaying in her mind. They would  _have_  to replace the Aurors, now. Even the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's ridiculous bureaucracy wouldn't be able to deny that there was a pattern of violent attacks directed towards the Malfoys and that better security was required.

But—

"Here."

She looked up to see her wand balanced on Draco's outstretched hand. He was watching her closely, as if gauging her reaction, looking uncomfortable — almost apologetic.

Taking it back, she ran her wand through her hands, feeling the familiar smooth grooves. He wouldn't need her to do magic for him anymore; something about the way his hand looked holding the wand told her that it wouldn't be leaving him again any time soon. It was strange, to see him carrying it with such ease, and to know that her wand had allowed him to channel such powerful magic through it. What could have set off such a reaction in him? Was it merely a symptom of his improving health? A breaking point in his frustration? Desperation at the danger she had been subject to?

"Thanks," she murmured, and left it on the bedside table.

"What are you going to tell them?"

She frowned. "Tell who?"

The look of discomfort hadn't left his face, only mixed with more concern. "Shouldn't you be—" He cut himself off.

But she could see the real question spelled out in his eyes, and she knew the real answer. She couldn't possibly face Weasley, not now. It wasn't because of the horror of Nott's violence against her, or the embarrassment of being attacked in Malfoy's own hallway, midway through kissing him; it was because she knew that, despite Draco's attempts to keep his own anxiety hidden in the face of her injuries, such an action would only precipitate the need for him to make a decision, to know if he would name Nott, and if Daphne and Pansy would face the prospect of Azkaban.

And her desire to keep him free of that for as long as possible was only partly for his own sake. She had a desperate urge to escape it entirely.

"I'll go to the Ministry tomorrow," she said quietly. "It'll take longer than only one conversation, and anyway—"

"Yeah."

She tried not to think about all the things Nott had implied about her sister; tried not to think of the truth that had hidden behind his words. The pounding pressure in her chest returned, and she could almost feel time slipping through her fingers, escaping her no matter how hard she tried to keep it for herself. Somewhere beyond the Manor walls, Nott was still alive, and Pansy and Daphne remained ignorant of the tactics she and Draco had to employ — ignorant of the  _horribly_  inappropriate ways they seemed to have decided to cope with the decision making.

Somewhere, her parents sniffed with derision at the  _Prophet_  headlines, not knowing that their daughter had nearly been killed for her career choices. Not knowing the way she was beginning to feel — no,  _already_   _felt_  — towards the only client she had ever had.

Grinding her nails against Draco's covers, she suddenly felt very young. Even Draco was only two years out of Hogwarts, and his body already carried more scars than any person ever should. And they were completely alone. In their own ways, both their families had forsaken them. And the world seemed intent on being rid of them.

It was wrong to sit there and ignore the real problem, to have such an unspoken deal, to have breached so many limits and have so many conflicting interests, and it was wrong to want to stay like this so desperately, hovering between decisions, to  _want_ —

"I'll get Ollie to escort you home," Draco said, drawing a breath and standing up. He appeared in less pain than before, having gathered some of his strength by resting, and his walk was steady as he turned towards the door. "You shouldn't risk there being someone waiting in your flat to ambush you or something."

"Draco."

"You need someone to be with you, Astoria — and Merlin knows  _I_  can't bloody go—"

" _Draco_."

He turned some feet away, watching her as she sat up straighter in the center of the bed, suddenly acutely aware of the way her thin shirt was falling slightly more open around her shoulders than she would ever allow it to in public. Her eyes were burning, her heart was pounding, and yet somehow she had never felt so secure in her own vulnerability.

"The trial is tomorrow."

He swallowed, and Astoria thought she saw him waver suddenly, as if the strength he had had in his knees threatened to give away beneath him. Maybe he could feel it too – the way the very air ticked with every passing second, and the iron grip of sudden decisiveness.

He replied in a low voice, the full weight of her words settling on him almost visibly. "I know."

She leaned forwards slightly, hands curled into the covers. "I'm not leaving."

The air escaped his lungs like barely-contained relief, and when he stalked back to the bed and sat down directly in front of her, her fingers entwined with his, warm and  _alive._ All of the words that had gathered up inside her fell into peaceful silence.

The trial could wait one more night before ending everything.  _This_  — the feeling of his warm breath on her neck as he breathed her in like she was oxygen, his arms around her — this was the only peace that they would be given. There were no easy endings to a conflict with so many different lives at stake. Only now, in his bed, enveloped in his warmth while he kissed her gently, his fingers tracing the lines of her face, so careful to not cause each other further pain, were they truly free from the hell that awaited; their pulses meeting and bonding as if they had been meant to sound in unison all along.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and wondered if this was the way he had felt when the magic had finally come back to him.

It was only when his tongue reached her clavicle, and his fingers roamed the bare skin of her stomach, and she rose to her knees again and moved to straddle him, pressing their bodies together, that he stopped and pulled away to look at her with slightly glazed eyes.

"Astoria, you're hurt."

She let a finger run gently over the light bruises on his jaw, following it with her lips. "So are you."

She didn't know if the noise he made was out of irritation or pleasure. "You know what I mean."

Pulling away and looking down at him, her hands on his shoulders, she smiled. "Are you in pain?"

Draco's lips twitched into a smirk, and she knew that he recognized her words from three nights ago, when she had helped him up the stairs after the fire. He moved his hands over the curve of her hips, and his eyes, tired, young,  _gentle_ , were piercing. "No more than usual," he replied, turning his head, a hand leaving her side to reach for her hand and press it to his mouth.

"Well then," she breathed.

Her fingers lingered on his mouth as his grey eyes slowly moved down to her lips, to the line where her shirt parted, where her breasts brushed against his chest with every breath she took.

Then Draco kissed her cheek, and the line of her jaw, and the space beneath her ear, and then wandered down the curve of her neck until her fingers closed around his shirt and she breathed his name like a spell, as if he had released magic into her skin that could no longer be contained. She learned the pattern to his scars and his bruises, and was gentle with the ridges of his ribs when he exposed them, and when he reached for the buttons of her own clothes she gave way freely.

It was silent, almost reverent, as if moving too fast or breathing to loudly might awaken them from a dream, as if the moment deserved more than they could possibly express, the softness of their touches not directed only by their wounds, but by the needs of their own skin. They spoke with breaths catching, fingers shaking from the intensity of the fire, the words were whispered like prayers – low, trembling.

Maybe when the next day came and they took their seats before the Wizengamot, he would speak Nott's name and everything would end – or maybe not, and he would be ripped away from her regardless. But as Draco pressed forwards, and her body rose and crested against him, and her gasps were lost against his flesh, it was almost like they could remain like this forever, hidden from the ghosts of memories that plagued them. And they allowed themselves, briefly, to imagine.

…

Draco woke up when she squeezed his hand.

His first instinct was to draw closer and press his face to her hair, but something about her expression when he opened his eyes stopped him.

Her pale skin looked more beautiful against the covers of his bed than he could ever have imagined.

Astoria reached up and smoothed his hair, pressing a short kiss to his lips, and the still unusual feeling of her naked body against his was almost enough to distract him from the fact that she was getting up to leave.

"Where are you going?"

She reached for her bra and shirt, which lay discarded at the end of the bed, and watched him gravely as she began to dress.

"You said you were staying."

"I did." She buttoned her shirt and then moved closer to him again, brushing her lips against his cheek. "And I'm glad I did. But tomorrow—" she hesitated. "It's best if I go now. We both need rest and—" she looked away from him. "I need to prepare."

There was a question, urgent and pressing in his mind, and he knew that she saw it, though his mouth remained shut.  _What would happen now?_  So many things would depend on the choices they made the next day, and so many of them were choices  _Draco_  would have to make—

He watched her get up from the bed again, watched her finish dressing, knowing he might never see the way her skin glimmered in the light of his bedroom again, or have her smile against his neck. And he despised himself for letting her leave, and for wanting to stop her, and for needing her in such a terrible,  _visceral_  way that shook his bones and made his heart twist painfully within him.

He stood up, ignoring the groaning of his bones, hurriedly pulling on his trousers. She was already near the door, and when he reached her he suddenly feared that she wouldn't look at him.

But then she turned and quickly hugged him, her face buried in his bare chest. He thought he felt her lungs heave once or twice with shuddering breaths, and he tried to memorize what it felt like to have her arms so tightly around him. Maybe this was what happiness felt like, or death.

And now all the questions seemed to fade into an answer that was so clear, he felt he should have seen it much sooner. He pressed his nose to her hair, inhaling her scent, anchoring himself to her. He couldn't name Nott. Not if it meant having her lose her sister, not if it meant causing her pain; not if it meant losing Astoria.

She pulled away. And as she stepped past the doorway, Draco felt a gaping space open up between them, with new lines, new rules – or the old ones, which had existed before they had allowed themselves to kiss at the top of the stairs, before they had known what it felt like to breathe together.

And then she was gone, and he was left only with his own beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (for the light smut, if you're related to me; for the angst, if you were hoping to have a fluffy chapter; and for the delay, if you've been waiting)! If you've been following me on twitter, you know how crazy these last few months have been, and how much college applications suck.
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter has three different drafts in different degrees of completeness, and it took five thorough revisions to look presentable (at least, I hope it does). I think I'm just incapable of writing happy romance stuff.
> 
> Thank you so much for your reviews! You have no idea how much I appreciate the feedback you guys give me. And thanks for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

The morning passed like a blur. Draco was tempted to make it even more of a blur by getting drunk by mid-morning, but some part of his self-control remained, and when he took his seat in the Ministry courtroom he was greatly relieved that it had.

Most of the Wizengamot was already seated. In fact, as Draco looked around the room with as much discretion as he could muster – he was acutely aware that almost everyone in the room had their gazes directed at him – it was only Astoria, Macmillan, the Minister and whichever Weasley was his secretary who were missing.

He could hardly avoid moving his gaze towards the desk on the opposite side of the courtroom. Macmillan’s empty seat was followed by Nott’s.

Draco wasn’t sure how he had avoided flinging himself at the bastard to wring his neck before Nott had even stepped through the courtroom door, but somehow he had managed to contain himself. There was some satisfaction to be derived from the obvious discomfort the jerky manner in which Nott walked betrayed. Macmillan probably had no idea why his witness moved so strangely, but Draco sneered at the memory of Nott flying through the window of the Manor.

It was closely followed by the memory of Nott’s fist colliding with Astoria’s face, which quickly replaced his satisfaction with rage.

Draco knew they weren’t allowed to speak to each other, and indeed Nott seemed intent to follow all rules while at the Ministry. His hair was slicked back with some sort of gelling charm and more than enough arrogance, and there was a disgusting confidence to the way he was sitting upright in his seat, as if he had already won. Draco moved his hand to his pocket, where the outline of his wand brought him some measure of comfort. The crippling emptiness in his fingertips had finally been replaced with the familiar sensation of magic.

He couldn’t help looking around again, for what had to be the hundredth time. Where was Astoria? With the other missing people, no doubt; after all, there were still five minutes left until the trial was due to begin, and it certainly wouldn’t start without the Minister. But he couldn’t seem to relax while her seat was empty next to his, and he had to force himself to focus on the situation at hand instead of allowing his mind to drift back to the way her legs had looked tangled up in his bedsheets…

As he jerked his head to a side to distract himself, Nott caught his eye. His features hardly changed, but there was a slight tightening in Nott’s jaw. He was angry.

_Good_.

The sudden click of an opening door broke through the near-silence of the courtroom, and as one, all heads turned towards the door near the Wizengamot benches. Astoria came at the forefront, eyes downcast and lips pressed into a thin line. Macmillan, striding in behind her, made a beeline towards his seat beside Nott, his normally elegantly styled hair looking slightly disordered. He threw Astoria one last look of dissatisfaction before taking his seat. The Minister and the younger Weasley took their seats wearily, and Draco thought he saw Shacklebolt sigh before beginning to arrange the documents in front of him.

Astoria sat down, and the sudden onslaught of her perfume left Draco momentarily dizzy. The bruises that had lined her neck were mostly hidden by the high collar of her shirt, and the remaining scars must have been covered by a glamor charm of some sort. The resulting effect was that she looked even more radiant than usual, which Draco found quite irritating.

“Are you ready?” she asked, by way of greeting.

He set his hands on the table and crossed his fingers to ensure that he wasn’t tempted to grab hers under the table. He let out a noncommittal grunt. “What was that about?”

“I don’t think Macmillan actually thought we would settle, but everyone’s frustrated anyway.” She reached down for her briefcase, waving a hand over the lock. It opened with a click, and she sifted through document after document before pulling out a seemingly random assortment of parchment rolls and an envelope, arranging them before her. Her expression was still grim, and she had not yet met his gaze. “Shafiq settled for twenty-five years.”

Draco’s stomach churned uncomfortably, but he tried to ignore it. “Greyback’ll probably be dead by then.”

Astoria didn’t reply.

The Minister cleared his throat, and the murmurs had been running through the courtroom until now were quickly silenced. Draco looked away from Astoria and focused on the thin lines that cut across the stone floor.

“The Wizengamot is present today to pass judgment on the case of Draco Lucius Malfoy, accused of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards, self-named _Death Eaters_ , under the command of Voldemort, in the murder, torture and other crimes committed against Wizarding and Muggle population from the year 1996 to 1998. In addition, he is accused of: aiding in the infiltration and attack on Hogwarts in 1997, assisting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, being responsible for the attack on Katherine Bell through Dark Magic, participating in various Death Eater meetings and witnessing over 30 tortures of innocent Muggles, Witches and Wizards, participating in the sacking of Ollivander's Wand Shop, witnessing the murder of the Muggle Wendy Stewart, submitting two Ministry officials to the Imperius Curse, and participating in the Battle of Hogwarts in support of the Death Eaters, assisting in the murder of hundreds and witches and wizards, many of them students." The Minister looked up briefly in Astoria’s direction. “To this, the accused pleads not-guilty.”

“I still think that was a stupid idea,” Draco drawled under his breath to mask the sudden pounding of his heart.

Astoria said nothing, but her jaw clenched even tighter and Draco immediately regretted saying anything.

He wondered, suddenly, if her injuries from the night before were still paining her. Had she rested enough? He got a sudden, irrational urge to reach for the collar of her shirt and examine her bruises. He wondered how much of the tension in her stance had to do with the situation, and how much of it had to do with pain.

Suddenly Macmillan was standing up, his hair now back in perfect order as he rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for a Quidditch match. Draco knew he was being childish, but he suddenly really wanted to punch the man.

Nott stepped forwards at a carefully measured pace, his features arranged into a mask of quiet reluctance. Astoria’s nails were digging into the quill she held between her fingers with such fierceness that Draco feared she might snap it in half. She was staring straight at Nott, and maybe Draco was imagining it, but Nott’s eyes skipped over their table entirely as he looked around the room.

There was very little in the manner of greeting between Macmillan and Nott. Maybe Macmillan had finally realized how much of an asshole his witness was. He went straight to the point.

“If you could please repeat the information you disclosed last Wednesday.”

“I mentioned that Draco Malfoy had been assigned the task of murdering Dumbledore by the Dark Lord, and would have done it, had Snape not interfered.”

The tension in the room was tangible now, and Astoria’s eyes were flitting from Nott to Macmillan, as if she was carefully calculating something. Draco had seen that look before, in people like Marcus Flint during Quidditch practice.

Macmillan nodded shortly. “Thank you.”

Stepping back from his witness, he turned towards the Wizengamot, pacing slowly across the floors Draco returned his gaze to the ground, feeling somewhat sick. He knew, mostly, what Macmillan was about to say – he had read it in the _Prophet_ countless times, and had had it shouted at him nearly as many times. But it never quite softened the blow of hearing it recited with Macmillan’s perfect enunciation, to a room of several dozen people.

“As you all know, this was a piece of new information that we were not aware of. As far as we knew, Draco Malfoy’s assignment by Voldemort involved granting passage to the Death Eaters into Hogwarts castle through the Vanishing Cabinet, and nothing more. Now, thanks to Mr. Nott, we know that his task was much more sinister – he was meant to murder the greatest wizard who ever lived.

“It made sense for Voldemort to choose Mr. Malfoy as the loyal servant entrusted to such a monumental mission. He would need someone with a profound knowledge of the school, the ability to approach the Headmaster’s chambers unsuspected, and an unswerving loyalty fueled by deep conviction. Having already proven himself by the actions that led up to the infiltration, including his participation in multiple Death Eater gatherings and the attack on Katherine Bell, Draco Malfoy was the perfect candidate.

 “We know, of course, that Severus Snape was the one who dealt the final blow that caused Albus Dumbledore’s death, as part of an arrangement between Dumbledore and Snape – but clearly, this was not the version of events Draco Malfoy would have preferred. His words to Mr. Nott conveyed a sense of pride – a sense of frustrated purpose. It is clear that the accused, at that moment in 1997 when he confided in Mr. Nott, wished that he could relive the moment and deal the killing curse himself. His intent, ladies and gentlemen, was that of a murderer.”

Draco battled nausea in his stomach. He wanted to close his eyes, shut out Macmillan and the Wizengamot from his vision, but he didn’t trust what the inside of his eyelids might show him. Dumbledore, the tower, the taste of an unpronounced _Avada Kedavra_ lingering in his lips…

Macmillan was not finished yet, but the cadence of his voice was reaching towards a point of finality, like a storyteller bringing a tale to its dramatic close. “This was Draco Malfoy’s first mission, and one that initiated his involvement leading up to the end of the War. I do not believe that it is a stretch to say that the crimes committed in June 1997 were the most significant in the accused’s career as a Death Eater. It was at this time that the petty schoolboy became a criminal – a criminal with murderous intent.”

He couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes. Blue eyes were staring at him from under half-moon spectacles.

He looked up quickly, preferring to face the Wizengamot instead. The witches and warlocks across the room glanced at each other, some leaning sideways to exchange quiet remarks with their colleagues. Macmillan’s statement had had the intended effect, and he seemed to bask momentarily in the air of the room. The Minister’s mouth was an expressionless line, and his eyes were fixed on the prosecution.

But Astoria’s mouth had twitched into a slight smile. Draco caught a gleam of triumph in her eyes, and the tightness in his throat relaxed slightly. Things, bizarrely, were going as she had hoped.

“The Wizengamot calls the defense forward.”

She still hadn’t spared him a glance.

Still with the mysterious smile on her lips, Astoria stood up, brushing past Macmillan to stand before the room. She stood still, her back to Draco, but he could almost see her eyes move over the Wizengamot in a calculated choreography. Somehow, the confidence with which she stood managed to reach him, and though he still felt a knot of nerves in his stomach, his nausea disappeared entirely.

“Thank you,” Astoria said, in the clear voice she reserved for trials – so different from the gentle conviction of her tone when it was only the two of them. Her gaze moved over the benches as she spoke, as if she was making eye contact with every single member of the audience. “We are all rather surprised at this new turn of events – the emergence of this information seems to have changed everything.” She paused before continuing, taking a breath. “And yet, when observing with objective eyes, it becomes clear that nothing has changed at all.

“Albus Dumbledore is dead, and Severus Snape murdered him. Draco Malfoy was present upon the Astronomy Tower of Hogwarts that night, and yet he murdered no one. Among the five Death present, Draco was the youngest at seventeen years old. It seems to me _rash_ , if not downright irrational, to try and lay the blame for such a high-profile assassination on the smallest person in the party – one who had clearly been coerced by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters to carry out the mission. We have repeatedly gone over the Malfoy family’s situation, and I don’t believe there is a need to restate how pitifully desperate it was. Draco carried the responsibility of his family’s fate on his young shoulders; he was to carry out the Dark Lord’s orders, on pain of death.”

She sighed with something akin to frustration. “We could philosophize for weeks about what might have been if Snape hadn’t been there, but what is the point? This is a trial, and we deal with facts. The fact is, Draco Malfoy did not kill Albus Dumbledore, and as such, he is innocent of the crime.”

Pausing again, Astoria turned slightly, and Draco could see her eyes burning with determination. They moved past Nott and connected with Macmillan’s. Her voice was as clear as ever. “We must ask ourselves, then, why the prosecution’s witness seems so eager to mention a fact that would seem irrelevant—”

Draco could see Macmillan’s irritation, and he couldn’t blame him. It was hardly an _irrelevant_ fact. It didn’t feel irrelevant; not when he could still remember the way the stone floor had felt against his shoes and the exact temperature of the wind upon the Astronomy Tower. But Astoria’s tone had turned cold.

“I have a series of questions to pose to Mr. Nott, which might help give us some context. Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that the only people with true knowledge of what happened were those who were on the Astronomy Tower, and that seventeen year olds under pressure easily submit to teenage attitudes when trying to hide very real fear. Draco Malfoy’s emotional state in 1997 is quite clear from the testimony of much more reliable witnesses than Mr. Nott, and I believe it would be ridiculous to count classmates boasting as an admission of murderous intent. If so, every false threat that gets thrown around in school dormitories would be prosecutable.”

Macmillan’s face was twisted into a barely-hidden scowl as Astoria turned swiftly to Nott, whose expression was steely as he faced her.

“Mr. Nott,” her tone was biting. “Please inform the Wizengamot of the names of your parents.”

Nott did not seem to have expected her to ask anything along those lines. He seemed to stumble over his words for a second, suddenly confused by her line of questioning. “Er… Paschal and Claudette Nott.”

“Thank you.” She turned to the Wizengamot. “I’m not sure if you are aware of the great Malfoy scandal that took place nearly fifty years ago; after all, Abraxas Malfoy made sure to keep it under wraps from the wider world.”

Macmillan had had enough. “Objection, Minister!” He sighed with irritation. “Is this relevant?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt merely raised his eyebrows at Astoria.

She didn’t miss a beat. “It will be. Mr. Nott, are you aware of the name Andrealphus Malfoy?”

Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Draco thought he saw Nott’s shoulders tense suddenly, apprehension running down his body like a lightning bolt. Then it disappeared, almost as immediately as it had come. “No.”

“I will tell you, then.” She looked around the room. “Andrealphus Malfoy was the younger brother of the infamous Abraxas Malfoy, I’m sure you’ve heard of him –” There was suddenly a lot of eyebrow-raising and murmuring around the room, especially from the older wizards. The mysterious resignation and sickness of Minister Leach in 1968 had not been forgotten, nor had the rumors of a conspiracy been entirely silenced. “—There isn’t much in the manner of records about his life, partly because he studied in Durmstrang and therefore most of his connections were established abroad, mostly because his own family went to great lengths to forget about him. But why were the Malfoys so intent to erase one of their own from their family tree?

“Well, as we all know by now, there were very few perceived crimes that the Malfoy family did not tolerate, and perhaps Andrealphus Malfoy committed the worst of all: he had a romantic relationship with a Half-blood witch. Her name was Amira Fawcett. And she became pregnant.”

Draco could tell that Macmillan was itching to intervene, completely baffled by where Astoria’s speech was going, and all the more apprehensive because of it. He himself had no idea what she was doing, but he found his hands clenched into fists on the desk before him, as if he was battling rising excitement.

Astoria was staring at Nott again.

“Mr. Nott, are you familiar with this story?”

“No.”

She smiled in what would be a benevolent manner, if her eyes weren’t gleaming electric blue. “I wouldn’t blame you. The Malfoys of old were very successful in covering up the story. Would you mind sharing with the Wizengamot, then, what prompted you to be a witness in a case against your classmate?”

He raised his chin slightly, mouth a proud line. “I want to see justice prevail. Draco had a choice, and he chose the Dark Lord.”

“And you?” she shot back.

Macmillan was on his feet, cheeks flushed. “Objection! _Irrelevant_!”

The Minister sighed. “Miss Greengrass,” he said warningly.

She ignored him. “ _And you_ , Mr. Nott?”

Draco could hardly breathe. It seemed that the Wizengamot was experiencing something similar, because the Minister didn’t seem to be able to bring himself to interrupt again. The discomfort in Nott’s expression was now evident, and Macmillan’s increasing desperation – though fueled by confusion – was only making Astoria’s line of questioning seem all the more appealing.

Nott’s eyes were burning, and his jaw was now ticking with boiling anger. “I was never a Death Eater.”

Her tone was cold. “And yet, I find it strange that you, out of all the Slytherin classmates Draco had, are so willing to testify against him. There are other Slytherins who have come forward, of course, as I’m sure the Council will see shortly – but you decided to go _against_ a classmate, when none of his actions truly impacted you.”

The Minister broke the spell, his voice sharp. “Miss Greengrass, get on with it.”

She took a breath and turned back to the Wizengamot. “Sorry, Minister. The fact is, we will probably never know if Andrealphus Malfoy’s death shortly after the discovery of his relationship with Amira Fawcett was truly a result of sudden sickness, as the Malfoys claimed at the time, or something more sinister at work. But what we _do_ know, thanks to Ministry records, and a quite detailed account by _Revelio!_ – one of the precursors of our now well-established _Witch Weekly_ – is Amira’s name, and furthermore, in a small section on page 12, almost as a footnote, the name of the daughter she gave birth to.”

Draco turned to look at Macmillan and could tell by his drawn eyebrows that he had no idea what Astoria was doing, and that he was completely unsettled by it. More worrisome to him, probably, was the look on Nott’s face.

Astoria walked back to the desk where Draco was, and he nearly flinched at the sudden proximity. But she didn’t look at him, instead reaching for the envelope on the desk. Pulling out a faded magazine page and drawing her wand, she projected its contents onto the bare wall. All heads turned.

The curling letters were faded and somewhat difficult to read, but some words were bolded in thicker lines of ink, and the scrawling title of the magazine at the top of the page, shrieking _Revelio!_ in the same antagonizing manner _Witch Weekly’s_ cover managed to imitate, could be clearly read.

Astoria held her wand steady, but her eyes were on the witness again. “Mr. Nott, would you mind reading out the name that is bolded in the page?”

Nott said nothing.

“Mr. Nott?”

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Nott’s face. Perhaps the Wizengamot did not see it from the angle at which they sat, but Draco did, and the sight of it brought him vicious satisfaction.

Nott cleared his throat once, twice, as if he could somehow postpone the words he was about to utter. He couldn’t refuse – not in front of the entire room. “Claudette Fawcett.”

“Is that not your mother’s name?”

“Yes, but—”

With a flourishing wave of her wand, the projection was gone, and the Wizengamot only had eyes for the witness and the defense. Astoria stalked towards Nott, her wand still in hand, and for a moment Draco almost wondered if she was going to strike him.

“Claudette Fawcett was not raised by a single mother, no,” she said calmly, her words addressed to the Council, though her eyes were on Nott. “Amira died a mere two years after, and as the Fawcetts fell out of popularity and therefore the tabloids, perhaps no one thought to ask when Amira’s elder sister presented a newer child in addition to her own. As we know, Claudette grew up to marry a certain Paschal Nott, and his son, Theodore Nott, is currently with us.”

“I fail to see the point.” Nott’s voice was shaking ever so slightly.

She abandoned all pretense of courtesy, then. Her voice was clear and sharp as a knife. “The point, Mr. Nott, which I am sure you well know, is that Wizarding Inheritance Law in Pureblood families is quite straightforward – the estate is inherited by the closest blood relative. It is for this reason that Draco Malfoy came to inherit the Malfoy estate upon his father’s imprisonment, and that, should he be convicted, the Malfoy estate would go to you, Theodore Nott, as the next of kin.”

A low gasp ran across the room, and suddenly Draco understood the pure brilliance of Astoria’s questioning. She had been counting on Macmillan making Nott the star witness for his case, and she had been right. Macmillan’s best argument had now been rendered invalid.

“We have a questionable allegation regarding murder that was never committed by my client, from a witness who seems surprisingly unscathed by the entire affair, and who we have now learned, has every motivation to support Draco Malfoy’s wrongful conviction. If the prosecution is leaning on a wizard with such a conflict of interest to hold up a case against a boy who was seventeen, under severe coercion from the greatest Dark Wizard in history, and clearly out of his depth, I think we must ask ourselves where _true_ malicious intent lies.”

Macmillan flew to his feet, eyes burning, but didn’t seem to know what to say. He, too, was in shock at the revelation of Nott’s motivations. He was watching his case slip through his fingers. Astoria had her back to him – but her voice rang sharp through the courtroom.

“I’m sure you have all heard of the violent crimes that took place this week, in which my client’s home was nearly burned to the ground and he was beaten within an inch of his life. His attackers had the flawed reasoning of turning my client into the poster child of the Death Eater movement, blaming him for crimes he was never involved in.” She reached for the envelope once more, producing a piece of parchment and waving her wand once more. “They nearly killed him. I have here a report of his state, issued by the Healers of St. Mungo’s. This is not the first time this has happened.”

_Nor the last,_ Draco thought grimly. There was silence as all eyes examined the report. He didn’t have to look at it. He still ached at the memory of Creevey’s blows.

“How much longer will the Wizarding World continue to punish Draco Malfoy for the crimes of Dark Wizards far guiltier than he ever was?” She looked about the room, eyes flaming with something very akin to anger. “This harassment of my client needs to stop, and I will _not_ tolerate it extending to the courtroom.”

Her eyes lingered far too long on Nott.

She was pushing her luck.

“Are you _mad_?” he muttered, heart beating violently in his chest when she approached the desk and there was some shuffling about in the seats around them.

Astoria set the envelope on the table, breathing a bit harder than usual, her eyes still shining from the intensity of her speech. He thought he caught sight of the bruises under her collar as she bent down slightly, and the sight of them made the fear that had spread through his chest burn painfully.

She met his eyes for the first time that day, and he saw the flickering emotion there.

“You’re baiting him,” Draco said angrily. “Discrediting him… that’s fine. But calling him out like that in front of everyone—”

“I didn’t.”

“’ _Harrassment’_?”

There was movement all around them as a witness made their way to the stand, but Astoria’s eyes were focused on his, still burning. “This is the best I can do, Draco. He’s not going to walk all over us; I’m not going to tolerate it.”

“You’re _baiting him_ ,” Draco growled. “What about your sister?”

“He won’t say anything unless he’s accused. He doesn’t want to call more attention to himself.”

“You think he’s not going to pay you a visit after this?”

There was something so fiery, so reckless about the look in her eyes as she looked down at him from across the desk, that for a second Draco thought she might bend forwards and kiss him, disregarding their surroundings entirely. But then the emotions were hidden again, and she was straightening. The room was beginning to still again.

Her lips twitched, her voice low. “I just scared the shit out of him. Macmillan will have his head before he has mine.”

Draco couldn’t banish the intense feeling of foreboding in his chest, but he didn’t have a chance to speak his mind any further, because Astoria was already walking away from him, towards the place where a new witness was waiting.

Pansy looked incredibly small despite the proud uprightness with which she sat.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Mrs. Prince, you were Draco Malfoy’s classmate and one of the closest friends he had. You were able to witness his behavior in the 1996-1997 school year, leading up to the attack on Hogwarts. Please share with us your impressions.”

Draco closed his eyes this time, leaning his head on one of his hands. Pansy’s voice sounded exactly the same as it had sounded when they were in school – if he ignored the tension in her voice, he might even be merely overhearing a conversation. She kept halting in between her words, as if they couldn’t quite keep up with her emotions. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“…. I thought it was the right thing. Everyone we knew said it was the right thing. And he… I… I didn’t understand why he wasn’t _happy._ My own father was furious when he heard the Malfoys had been given ‘another chance’. I didn’t know what he’d been asked to do, I knew he couldn’t tell, on pain of death, but… I don’t think I understood.

“He just… he became so _nervous_. He stopped eating, lost weight… no one knew what was wrong with him. He kept saying everything was fine, but I could tell it wasn’t. It was the first time he stopped confiding in me altogether. We used to talk a lot. That year, he just seemed to get further and further away.”

“Did he seem excited about his new task?”

“No. He said he was, sometimes, when people like Crabbe and Goyle were listening. We all knew those two reported everything to their fathers during the War, so there was no use in trying to keep anything a secret. I think even he was getting tired of it. He became very quiet, and one time… one time I think I caught him crying. He got angry when I asked, and we had a fight.”

He had been sitting in the common room one night, thinking everyone else was asleep, unable to sleep himself – he kept having nightmares with the same red eyes staring at him and _laughing_. He had been shivering near the fire, feeling too pathetic to even summon a blanket, and then she had seemed to appear out of nowhere, with her prying words and those eyes that had welled up in _pity_ …

“He was so scared that people would think he was weak. But it was killing him.”

When Astoria returned to her seat, Draco kept his head down. His hand was a fist pressed against his temple.

Macmillan barked his questions in quick, short bursts, his normally calm demeanor flustered by the dismay he no doubt felt at losing his star witness. “Did Draco Malfoy want to be a Death Eater?”

There was a moment of silence, and suddenly Draco felt amused. He knew Pansy was glaring at Macmillan; she had never liked him – he had always done better than her in Transfiguration and had a habit of looking smug when she made a mistake. Draco couldn’t really blame him, because Pansy was known to be insufferable, but the scathing tone she used in reply, even at a trial before the entire Wizengamot, couldn’t _not_ be amusing.

“Are you joking?” she exclaimed mirthlessly. “We all thought we wanted to be, especially the boys. It was such a taboo subject at the dinner table – all our families knew about it, and sometimes you would catch the adults whispering about it, but it was never spoken out loud. Everyone tried to forget the First War. But for us, it was a legend… and when it became real, I think we still thought about it that way.” There was another pause. “Until people started dying.”

“Did _you_ submit to the pressure, Mrs. Prince?”

This time Draco couldn’t help it. He looked up. Pansy’s expression remained calm, but her eyes were nearly murderous. Macmillan really shouldn’t cross Pansy.

“Objection, Minister,” Astoria suddenly called out. “This is irrelevant—”

The Minister shook his head. “We tolerated your tangents, Miss Greengrass. Overruled.”

Astoria fell silent. Pansy ground her teeth once before speaking.

“It wasn’t the same for girls. Being a Death Eater was… _unladylike_. And my family had other concerns at the time… there was too much at stake. My father never threw his loyalties with the Dark Lord. Neither did I.”

“We were all there, the night of the battle, when you tried to turn Harry Potter in.”

Astoria tensed beside Draco, her arm pressed against his as she leaned forwards slightly. But Pansy hardly missed a beat.

“That isn’t a question.”

Macmillan ignored her. “Do you have any justification?”

“The school was about to be overrun with Death Eaters. I didn’t commit a _crime_.”

“Would you take it back?”

The questions were shot back and forth. It was turning personal. Astoria couldn’t even hope to get a word in edgewise. Pansy looked downright furious.

 “I just wanted us all to escape alive. Do you know how many students were in the castle at that time? Over eight hundred, I don’t know. It’s a lot. I wasn’t a _hero_. I was a child. So was Draco.”

“ _Minister_!” Astoria was nearly breathless.

“The trial is for Draco Malfoy, Mr. Macmillan, not Mrs. Prince.”

Macmillan nodded shortly, saying nothing more, his eyes still on Pansy. She straightened in her seat, reaching up to smooth a lock of her hair. It seemed to Draco that she was breathing rather heavily, and he wondered just how scared she really was. With the secrets she had, the questioning was hitting rather close to home.

But if Pansy was anything at all, it was stubborn. She recovered quickly, and launched into the rest of her speech.

“I knew Draco was coming, and so were many others – people I grew up with. I didn’t want to see a massacre. I didn’t know how many of my classmates were going to stay. I didn’t want to be forced to kill my own friends.”

It wasn’t really relevant to the case, not anymore. But Macmillan had wanted to hear it, and Astoria seemed to know better than to stop her. Pansy was setting a precedent, and establishing sympathy.

She had always been good at getting out of punishments.

Suddenly she drew in a breath, and it seemed to Draco that she shuddered slightly. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the ground, away from Macmillan. “Draco and I…” she swallowed. “We were close. We’ve… we’ve always been close.”

Something changed abruptly, and in the silence of the room, Draco could almost hear her heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own, like the running pulse of all the years that they had spent together as children, like all the times he had wanted to speak to her about what was hurting him, but didn’t, out of pride.

Her eyes were glistening.

“Draco was to me, always, the family my own family couldn’t be.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I should have helped him – I should have. I was just too young, too stupid. I didn’t know what to do.”

Pansy’s voice broke, and her eyes met his. And it felt like it was just the two of them in the entire courtroom, her voice an apology. It was for more than just the War – it was for everything that had happened afterwards.

Draco gave a short nod.

“That will be all,” Macmillan said dryly, returning to his seat.

Pansy’s mask remained off for only a few seconds. As soon as she was crossing the stone floor to return to the audience seats, she was, once more, Mrs. Julien Prince – immaculate glamour charms and a gait that could rival a queen’s. Her eyes did not meet Draco’s again, but they didn’t have to. She had already been more honest and open with him than she had ever been since they were ten years old.

Warmth spread on the crook of his arm, and he turned to see Astoria’s hand there, her eyes fixed on his with concerned tension. She couldn’t have understood the real depth of Pansy’s apology, but she had heard their past exchanges, and probably guessed the rest of it.

He hadn’t realized just how hurt he had been by Pansy’s refusal to help him, until she had finally apologized for not doing so.

“Draco.”

“What?” he snapped under his breath, trying to force his emotions into neutrality.

“It’s your turn.”

It was so that Draco found himself seated, finally, on the very same throne-like chair that had held so many convicted Death Eaters, the place where so many of them had begged for mercy. It was one of the last remnants of the ridiculously archaic Ministry practices that must have held some sort of sentimental value to the Wizengamot, though all they reminded Draco of was father’s trial and the stories he had been told about chains and bloodthirsty juries that brought in Dementors to administer the Kiss in front of the Council.

He sat completely still, trying his utmost not to fidget, the stares of the Wizengamot fixed on him in a manner that was eerily reminiscent of vultures.

Astoria had ensured him that there would be no need to give a long speech; but now he almost wished there was, because Macmillan was clearly frustrated by the way things were going and now had the opportunity to make up for.

Draco met his eyes with the coldest stare he could muster without looking rude.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he said, and it was mostly true.

Macmillan glanced at the Wizengamot. “I believe the Council is hoping for your version of events.”

Taking a deep breath, Draco crossed his fingers in front of him and steeled himself for the inevitable humiliation. But he didn’t look away from Macmillan – he wouldn’t give the idiot the satisfaction. “I was just trying to protect my family.”

“Your father, the Death Eater, who is currently in Azkaban?”

Draco swallowed down the angry shame he was now used to feeling every time someone like Macmillan so much as mentioned his father. “ _Yes._ Regardless of what he may have done, he’s my _father_.”

“He was responsible for many murders.”

“I was seventeen when the War ended, fourteen when the Dark Lord returned. I hadn’t even begun studying for my O.W.L.s when my family sided with the Death Eaters. Everything I did was just to try and stay alive.”

He was starting to feel his throat closing up, like enough air couldn’t reach his lungs. But he kept his gaze firmly on Macmillan, refusing to cower under it. Where was Astoria? _Sitting at his back_ , he tried to remind himself. She had a plan. He only had to speak.

“The things that happened during the War – they happened. But I never killed anyone. I never wanted to.”

“Do you deny wishing that Severus Snape had not killed Albus Dumbledore, so that you could murder him yourself?”

“I deny it,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “I was _seventeen_.” He bit back a curse.

“You were legally an adult at the time.”

“I didn’t _want_ to be a Death Eater,” Draco snapped. “But when he’s living in your _house_ , breathing down your neck, _torturing_ —” he stopped short and swallowed, his teeth grinding against each other. “You don’t just say _no_ to the most dangerous Dark Wizard who ever lived.”

“So you hold that you were coerced by Voldemort to commit crimes in his name?”

“I was.”

“But did his principles not coincide with your own? As the heir of a powerful Pureblood family, it was to your advantage to side with Voldemort.” Macmillan’s tone was calm and carefully measured, and it made Draco’s blood boil. “And if you were so against it, why not ask for Albus Dumbledore’s help, when you were in such proximity to him during the school year? He would have protected you.”

“It wasn’t that easy—”

“It was a matter of picking a side, Mr. Malfoy, something many of us did during the War!” Macmillan exclaimed, his face tense with barely contained anger. “The opportunities were there; but instead you decided to put hundreds of lives at risk, and gave way to the murder of the greatest wizard that ever lived!”

“Objection, argumentative!” Astoria’s voice rang loud from behind him.

But Macmillan was finished, and Draco couldn’t seem to find his voice. It was hidden under the heavy weight of the truth Macmillan was spitting out, and he could only remain silent. Dumbledore’s eyes were shining at him from the stone floor, reflected on Macmillan’s spectacles, burned into his very eyelids…

“It’s all right, Minister. I’m done here.”

He could feel Macmillan walk away, and felt the burning shame rising into his head, pulsing against his eyes, hot tears welling there, acutely aware that he had been the first to look away. Acutely aware that Macmillan was right. Acutely aware that he had probably lost the case Astoria had worked so painstakingly to put together.

And then he was being walked back to his seat, his jaw aching from the pressure of keeping it clenched.

He never had picked a side, had he? Even now, nothing had changed.

He thought of Nott, sitting somewhere in the courtroom, hateful evidence of his own failure. He wondered if Nott was laughing now, if Pansy was regretting ever testifying on his behalf, if Blaise, somewhere, was wondering how to keep the business together during the years Draco spent in prison…

“Draco.” It was Astoria again.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t.

He felt, as if from a distance, the pressure of her fingers against his wrist – reassuring, still mostly professional, but _warm_. He looked up into her eyes and saw the warmth there.

He breathed.

Daphne’s testimony was a blur, in which he could only seem to focus on the way Astoria’s blue eyes remained on her sister, her apprehension clearly visible as Macmillan delivered question after question, as Daphne’s blonde head remained tilted down to avoid making contact with the watchful audience. What little awareness remained in Draco, he directed to subtly pulling his wrist from Astoria’s grasp before anyone noticed that she had forgotten to remove her hand.

She was afraid for her sister.

Draco didn’t dare look at Nott. If his choice hadn’t been made the night before, it most certainly was now.

When Daphne left, almost running back to the comfort of her seat, Draco finally felt himself begin to relax. It was over. Now he could go home and fall asleep somewhere where no one would care to ask any questions. He was so damn _tired_.

He wryly thought that he might as well enjoy his last few naps on the sitting room sofa.

It would all soon belong to Nott, anyway.

 “Minister, I have one more witness.”

Draco’s head shot up. He wasn’t the only one who looked surprised. Kingsley Shacklebolt frowned, and Draco saw Percy Weasley give his notes a hasty examination. Macmillan’s face was turned away from Draco, but it was clear that he had miscalculated. By betting on Nott’s testimony to sway the Council, he had left more space for Astoria to display a wide assortment of testimonies on Draco’s behalf.

The Minister gave a short nod. “Very well, then. Where are they?”

As the room turned to look at the next witness, Astoria met Draco’s eyes, and he saw a strange emotion there – as if she was daring him to react, while simultaneously being apologetic.

He didn’t understand why, until he saw the witness.

Potter’s expression was perfectly composed as he stepped forwards. He must have arrived later, because Draco would have noticed him immediately if he had been there the whole time. He thought he caught sight of the Weasley girl’s red hair in the crowd. So he had brought his posse along with him.

There was the same flurry of reactions as there had been when Potter had appeared at his mother’s trial; necks craning in the audience, Council members murmuring amongst each other. But Potter ignored everything; he was probably used to it at this point.

Astoria rose to her feet, no longer looking at Draco, as if she was afraid of what she might see in his expression. She pressed the tips of her fingers to the desk momentarily, as if steeling herself for what was to come.

He had no idea how she had managed to contact Potter, when no one else had been able to do so, but there was clear recognition in Potter’s eyes as he faced Astoria for questioning. It was obvious that they had spoken before, beyond his quick appearance at Narcissa’s trial.

“Mr. Potter,” Astoria began, her voice not betraying the exhaustion she was bound to be feeling after everything that had already happened that day. “The Wizengamot has heard multiple testimonies regarding certain key moments in my client’s life – yet there have been few first-hand accounts of his time during the worst part of the War, when it seemed that Voldemort was nearing victory. I believe you had an encounter with Mr. Malfoy, only a few months before the end of the War.”

Potter straightened his glasses, face impassive. “I did.”

“Do you recall the exact date?”

“I don’t… but it was sometime around March.”

Astoria was holding a parchment in hand, looking down occasionally to read notes, though it was likely that she already knew what she was going to say by heart. “You, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were captured by Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor, which at the time was serving as the Death Eater headquarters.”

“That’s right.”

“Was Voldemort present?”

“No,” Potter shook his head. “The head of operations at the time seemed to be Bellatrix Lestrange, though Lucius Malfoy didn’t seem too happy about that.”

Some members of the Wizengamot nearly smirked.

“What exactly happened at the Manor?”

Draco kept his eyes firmly on the desk in front of him, nails sinking painfully into his own palms.

“We were taken along with some other prisoners of the Snatchers. We were lying about our names, and Hermione had jinxed my face so that it wasn’t easily recognizable, since, you know…” he waved a hand vaguely.  “But they suspected us, of course, and Lucius and Narcissa recognized Ron and Hermione immediately. But they weren’t so sure about me, since my face was disfigured by the jinx. So they called Draco.”

Draco wanted to get up and leave; wanted to _run_ , wanted to vomit on the courtroom floor, wanted to pass out and not wake up in order to not have to hear _Harry fucking Potter_ defending him – saying what he was about to say, phrasing it in a way that would sound so much better than any intention Draco had actually had that night.

“He stood right in front of me, with his father practically forcing him to examine my face.” Potter paused for a moment. “He looked scared. When they asked him questions, he never answered definitely. I knew he recognized me; we made eye contact. But he didn’t say anything.

“He knew that they would summon Voldemort immediately if the Death Eaters knew they had me, and he omitted the truth on purpose. Even though his whole family depended on Voldemort’s praise to get them back into favor, even though they were already afraid for their lives, even though he knew they would pay if they let me get away… he didn’t tell them it was me.”

There was another pause, and Draco had a sick mental image of Potter looking around the room dramatically, watching his point sink in. “It was thanks to him that we weren’t murdered then and there, and that all three of us were able to escape the Manor, taking the other prisoners with us. If he hadn’t stayed quiet for our sakes, we would have lost the War that night.

 “If Lucius Malfoy hadn’t been a Death Eater in the First War, if they hadn’t been so afraid of going against Voldemort, if they hadn’t instilled prejudice in their son… maybe Draco would have had a chance to make his own  choices.” His voice was low, pensive, but the whole room held on to his every word. “I hope he gets a chance to do so now.”

Astoria didn’t bother asking any more questions. “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said, and turned to the Minister. “That is all.”

Draco finally brought himself to look up, to find the Minister looking at Macmillan.

“Mr. Macmillan?”

But Ernie Macmillan was exactly the person Astoria had known he would be; a righteous wizard who had once been in Dumbledore’s Army, who had followed Potter’s orders like a soldier follows a general. He was a man who owed Harry Potter his life, and was acutely aware of the sacrifices that Potter had made.

And so, Macmillan shook his head.

“Trial adjourned. The verdict will be pronounced tomorrow.”

And it was over.

As the courtroom rose, Draco could feel his heart pounding in his chest so violently that he felt his ribs might crack. His limbs felt numb, and he couldn’t seem to be able to move.

“Malfoy.”

His neck complied, then. He lifted his head to meet Potter’s eyes, so identical and yet so different from the ones he used to glare at in Hogwarts, when they had shot insults at each other, sometimes even curses. He didn’t have the words to reply.

Potter swallowed, looking uncomfortable, but his tone was one of conviction. “I didn’t do it for you, if it makes you feel any better. I did it for your mother, and all the other poor idiots that got roped into working for him.”

Draco didn’t know if it made him feel any better. His tongue was tied and his mind seemed frozen in place.

“But I meant it,” Potter continued, his eyebrows drawn together. “What I said about choices. If you win this case – now’s your chance.”

Draco couldn’t feel his arms or legs, and the pounding in his chest had faded into deadly silence. He had nothing to say, and it didn’t seem like Potter expected him to answer anyway, because he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd that was abandoning the courtroom.

He looked up to see Astoria, and then his limbs finally seemed to respond. But he ignored the fingers that brushed against his, and found himself making his slow, numb way out of the Ministry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last few months have been crazy, and I now find myself living in Tanzania, so it's been really difficult to dedicate enough time to writing! And this chapter was extremely complicated to write. Thank you for your reviews! I hope to have this story wrapped up by the end of March.


	26. Chapter 26

Zabini was already waiting in the drawing room when Draco set foot in the Manor, and didn’t even do him the courtesy of looking apologetic. Draco scowled.

Blaise glanced at the fireplace briefly. “Thought she was coming with you.”

With a body half numb and half trembling with pent-up emotion, Draco couldn’t even form the words to convey why he really couldn’t bear the thought of Astoria being anywhere near him at the moment, so he settled for a sort of growling snarl, to which Blaise rolled his eyes.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Draco walked past his unwanted visitor and made his way towards the staircase. He could hear the broken glass crunching under their shoes, but Blaise didn’t seem to notice it. Perhaps he’d already encountered it last time he had been in the Manor, and drawn his own conclusions.

The press had crowded around Draco as soon as he had left the courtroom, but the new Aurors Bill Weasley had finally assigned to protect him had been considerably more efficient than Buchannan and Smith, and so he had only had to grit his teeth and keep his eyes fixed on a distant point before him until he was Flooing home. The shouting voices hadn’t been hard to drown out; his mind was still spinning and replaying Potter’s words over and over. It all only served to make him angrier.

Ollie skittered towards him at the top of the landing, stopped short at the look on his face, and promptly disappeared in the opposite direction. Draco stalked down the corridor, turned sharply into the sitting room, threw himself down on the sofa and turned to glare at Blaise.

“Why are you here?”

Blaise’s lip curled as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I was thinking that it might be a good time to call on our friend Mulpepper.”

“ _A good time_?” Draco looked at him with absolute bafflement. “How in Merlin’s name is this _a good time_? In case you hadn’t noticed,” he added. “I just got back from the Ministry.”

“I know. I came just ahead of you. Your entourage slowed you down.”

Draco snorted and rubbed his face with one hand, feeling infinitely tired. “I need a drink,” he grumbled, staying hunched over with his forehead on his palm, propped up with an elbow on his knee.

Ollie appeared immediately, bowed, and retreated, but not before Blaise had already put in an order of his own, as if this was _his_ bloody house.

Astoria had known what bringing Potter to the trial would do to him. He had seen it in her eyes just before he had realized who was about to testify; she had looked almost like she was going to apologize.

She had no idea how it had felt, to have to sit there and listen to Potter speak about him, to watch the irony play out in his head against every single interaction they had had before that moment… to remember, with bile churning in his stomach, the childish glee he had felt every time he succeeded in making Potter’s stupid, naïve face flush with anger, anger that had only grown into hatred as the years passed by…

 “Look, Malfoy, if you intend to waste the rest of the day pondering over your misfortune, I think I’m better off getting a First Year to help me with this business.”

Draco turned his head only as much as was necessary to send a look of proper scorching rage his way. “If you really were at the trial,” he snapped. “Then you know I have every reason to give myself some bloody time to _ponder on my misfortune_ , given the circumstances.”

Blaise snorted and pushed himself off of the doorway, looking down at him with a sardonically raised eyebrow. “Oh, the _horror_ of having Harry Potter himself come and testify on your behalf. What a tragedy that must be.”

He wasn’t helping. All Draco really wanted was to sit quietly and, yes, maybe _ponder on his misfortune_ a bit more, but in all fairness he really had earned the right to do so. He had no interest in discussing his feelings and experiences with Zabini – no matter how admittedly great, and somewhat surprising, it was that Blaise still wanted to help him.

Ollie delivered the drinks, and Draco snatched the glass from the table in front of him.

He took a swig. “If you’re so bloody eager to get this thing done, go get Mulpepper.”

There was a pause, and Draco turned again to see Blaise surveying him with distaste on his dark features. “I’m not bringing him here when you look like _that_. I also have no intention of _entertaining_ him in your sitting room like he’s some sort of family guest. Pick somewhere…” Blaise looked around at the bare walls and the small oasis of carpets and sparse furniture that Draco was perched on. “ _Scarier_.”

“This isn’t the Shrieking Shack.”

Blaise smirked. “Put him in the Dark Lord’s room, I bet that’ll make him piss himself.”

Draco almost choked on his drink.

He couldn’t even begin to explain why nothing Blaise was saying made any sense, and why every word that was escaping the git’s mouth was absolutely insensitively insulting to the years of horrible memories the Manor housed, so he just coughed and slammed his glass down on the table. “We can use the entrance hall.”

“You’re so underwhelming.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re much too happy about this.”

It occurred to him for a second that Blaise might actually be trying to cheer him up. He was failing enormously, of course, but the thought was off-putting enough to somewhat distract Draco from how unpleasantly the trial had gone. He finally sighed and got on his feet, facing Zabini.

“That’s better,” Blaise drawled, like a parent surveying his child. As if Draco hadn’t had enough humiliation today for a lifetime. If he hadn’t needed Zabini on his side so badly, he might have hexed him. “Especially with that murderous expression; I think it’ll add nicely to the ambiance. See you downstairs in five minutes.”

And saying that, he smirked and left the room.

Draco finally let out the frustrated yell that had been boiling inside him, and in a sudden spurt of violence, knocked over the small table with his foot. The remains of his drink soaked slowly into the carpet. He turned away from it, palms pressed to his eyes, which felt all too hot in the cool air of the Manor. He was shaking.

Was Potter intent on adding himself to the mad cast of characters that had a habit of appearing in his head? Hadn’t he had _enough_?

Even now, he could hear Astoria’s voice, low and scathing: _You think it's much better to just sabotage yourself by keeping information from me because you're too bloody proud._

He had spent almost the entire second half of his life fighting tooth and nail against Potter, hating Potter, _attacking_ Potter – and now, in some manner of strange, fucked-up poetic justice, Potter was turning it around and making him the recipient of his particular nobility-infused _benevolence_.

Hadn’t he survived the past two years without _anyone_ , much less _Potter,_ there to save the day? Didn’t life owe him something better than being reduced to the role of victim in the strange story that was playing out – the story where Potter always, _always_ , seemed to be the hero?

_If you win this case – now’s your chance._

It was patronizing, that’s what it was – and worst of all, it was _true._

When he finally made his way down to the entrance hall, the arch leading into the drawing room was already gleaming with green light from the fireplace flames. Draco pushed his hair out of his face irritably and pulled out his wand, feeling some fleeting satisfaction at the knowledge that he could, at the very least, finally use magic.

Blaise emerged only a few seconds later with the sound of screeching glass against marble, one hand fastened on the collar of a trembling figure, which he tossed onto the ground mercilessly, his wand already pointed at its head. He made momentary eye contact with Draco, amusement gleaming in his gaze, and then his normally calm features twisted into cruel anger.

“Look up, you sorry excuse for a wizard!” he snapped. His wand twitched and the figure’s head was suddenly raised to reveal the terrified yet slightly glazed-over eyes of Travis Mulpepper.  With his wrinkled hat and cigar absent, he looked like a strange, shrivelled goblin.

At the sight of him, Draco felt his frustration melt away slightly, replaced with cold enjoyment. It had been weeks since their encounter at Mulpepper’s apothecary, but his anger had in no way diminished.

“Welcome,” he began scathingly. “To my… what was it? ‘ _Rotting cave in Wiltshire’_?”

Mulpepper let out a strangled growl, eyes darting around the hall as if he expected someone to run in and save him at any moment. “The Ministry’s got you sealed off,” he floundered.

“Well, obviously not completely,” Blaise drawled, his wand tightening the man’s bonds painfully with a twist of his wrist. “Good luck trying to get out, though.”

“What do you want?” The old man spat.

Draco allowed himself a threatening grin. “You stole my property. I want it back.”

Mulpepper ground his teeth together, but then bared them in a yellowish grin. In the dim light, the rusted metal teeth were rotten, dark gaps in his smile. “And you think tying me up is gonna do the trick? I run a _business_ , Malfoy. All you’ve got left is this dump. And if you think killing me will help, I’m sure the Ministry’s tracking that sort of activity around here; don’t think I don’t know that.”

“Who says I want to kill you?” Draco retorted. “I want the Fluxweed back, and you’re going to give it to me.”

The pale eyes stared at him with a sickly sort of satisfaction. “There’s nothing you can do to scare me, Malfoy. Lucius might have thought he could boss the rest of us around like we were his House-Elves, but his time is up. So is yours. Let me go if you know what’s good for you, or I’ll take you to the Ministry and have you thrown where you belong. You’ve got no power left.”

Draco smiled coldly. “You’re forgetting something.”

“You’re a businessman, aren’t you, Travis?” Blaise crossed the floor until he was standing beside Draco, his wand held so casually in his hand that it almost didn’t seem like he was responsible for Mulpepper’s bonds. “Don’t you know that every business revolves around the needs of its clients?”

Reaching into his robes, he produced a roll of parchment, which Draco unravelled with a flick of his wand. It hovered in front of Mulpepper’s face, names and numbers reflected in his glassy eyes.

“My uncle’s a potioneer,” Blaise explained calmly. “Orders a supply of Fluxweed every six months from the Malfoy Apothecary. The transaction is made automatically at Gringotts – it’s been going on for generations, you see.”

The old wizard’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that to me?”

Blaise’s tone was so threatening that Draco found himself wondering why in Merlin’s name he had settled for Crabbe and Goyle to help him terrorize First Years during their childhood. “He died in a Ministry raid just after the War – but the deal still stands, and it’s been passed on to _me_ , as his closest male relative. Which means that now, since _you_ have the Fluxweed, you owe me two years’ worth of the product.”

Mulpepper let out a snarl. “What’s this?” he spat, turning to look at Draco, hatred shining in his eyes. “Getting your friends to do your dirty work?”

“He’s my client,” Draco replied. The roll of parchment fell to the floor with a hollow smack. “The Fluxweed was already paid for. You stole it from him, not from me.”

“In case you hadn’t heard, I’m back in town,” Blaise continue. “And the Zabinis won’t blink twice at having to drag you to the Ministry for theft – especially when it comes to an ingredient as dangerous as Fluxweed. You want Aurors poking around in your shithole of a shop?”

Draco’s cold smile widened. “Are you scared yet?”

…

Blaise returned with a signed parchment and a list detailing the amounts of product that had been returned. Mulpepper had even had to pay back some in galleons, to make up for selling some of the two years’ worth of Fluxweed. Blaise split the amount and tossed Draco his half.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re so moody about anyway,” he said, continuing the conversation where it had been abandoned more than an hour ago. “You went from having no chance to having the greatest of chances handed to you. Last week you thought you were going to end up in Azkaban.”

Draco threw the pouch of galleons onto the upturned table and glared into the fire. "I'm sick of everyone setting up a fucking safety net underneath me."

Blaise snorted, but when Draco glanced at him, the mirth was gone from his eyes. “Oh, you were expecting some sort of gloriously dramatic exit from the courtroom, with Greengrass convincing the jury and you watching powerfully on as all your enemies were vanquished?”

 He sighed and made his way to the couch, taking a seat and crossing his arms in front of him. “Trials aren’t like that, Malfoy. You’re lucky you’ve gotten away with minimal humiliation. You know what the rest of us had to do?” He wasn’t looking at Draco now, but at the opposite wall, his face oddly blank. “I had to _beg_ the Wizengamot. My mother _cried_. Have you _seen_ my mother?”

Draco swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He could hardly bring himself to imagine Mrs. Zabini, with her usual regal gait and her prideful scowl, undone in front of the Wizengamot.

“We were on the wrong side of the War,” Blaise continued. “There isn’t going to be some glorious victory at the end of this. It’s going to be humiliating, and it’s going to hurt like bloody murder, and by the end of it all you’re going to want to kill everyone and most of all, yourself. That’s how trials are.”

To be honest, Draco hadn’t really thought about what Blaise’s trial had been like. He supposed, belatedly, that maybe he should have been there. But at the time the thought of being at the Ministry only a few months after his father had been convicted had seemed almost physically impossible.

Blaise’s eyes were emotionless, but his mouth twitched into a smirk. “You’re lucky you have Greengrass. I guess the family brains must have skipped Daphne entirely.”

He caught the look on Draco’s expression and snorted, but said nothing else.

They stayed that way in silence, Blaise sitting and Draco standing, facing the same direction, until finally Draco let out a sigh of frustration and turned.

“I didn’t expect it to be a victory. But how would you have felt if _Potter_ showed up at your hearing—”

“I would have been _grateful_ , Malfoy,” Blaise snapped, interrupting him. His eyes were suddenly burning, cutting holes into Draco’s. “Because after all the shit you put Potter through, he did you that favour. You think you _deserve_ to get out of Azkaban? Is that what you think?” He let out a low laugh and shook his head. “Greengrass got you the best witness you possibly could have had on your side. You have a chance, now. Get over yourself.”

Draco swallowed again, digging his shoe into the carpet as he turned back to the fire. He knew, vaguely, that he should write a letter to Sally Coulson to explain that he had fixed the situation – to prove that he hadn’t failed _completely_. To show that he, too, could solve things, like his father once had, but _better_ … except he never seemed to be doing any of it on his own.

_If Lucius Malfoy hadn’t been a Death Eater in the First War, if they hadn’t been so afraid of going against Voldemort, if they hadn’t instilled prejudice in their son… maybe Draco would have had a chance to make his own  choices._

Zabini would have been _grateful_.

And he could hear himself again, snapping at Astoria when she accused him of being too proud, too stubborn to tell her what she needed to know in order to win.

He had been so _scared_.

But he had still wanted, for some stupid, pointless reason, to have a chance at a victory lap – at emerging from it all with his head raised high, at pointing out to the world that somehow, maybe, he had been innocent.

It was unrealistic, and it was stupid; hadn’t he told Astoria the same?

He wondered absently what would have happened if his mother and father, upon discovering that the Dark Lord was soon to return, had gone to the people who might have truly helped them – the same people Draco himself might have shunned; people like Zabini, or even the Greengrass family, who would have _understood_ , who might have even helped, somehow, to ease the load of terror. People like Dumbledore.

People like Potter.

Draco waited until the knot in his throat subsided and his eyes burned from staring at the fire for so long. Then he turned to find Blaise already waving his wand at the mess that was the spilled drink on the carpet. The table was on its legs again, and there was a pile of documents on it.

Blaise pointed to the contract at the top of the pile and leaned forwards to hand him a quill. His eyes looked tired, but his lips twitched. “Stop being a little bitch, Malfoy.”

Draco took it.

“I fucking hate you, Zabini.”

 “Mother says I’m just like my father,” Blaise added, smirking as he watched Draco sign. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s not a compliment.”

…

Blaise left half an hour later, looking much too satisfied for Draco’s liking, though he knew he should be feeling triumphant as well. It was just a bit difficult to focus on the pleasing memory of Travis Mulpepper coming to the realization that crossing the Malfoys had been a mistake, so soon after the emotional upheaval of that day.

He swallowed down the last dregs of bitterness he felt at Potter’s appearance. Zabini was right. And so was Astoria, of course. The knowledge didn’t quite appease his shame, but it brought it down from a violent boil to a mere simmer, which was a considerable improvement.

He wondered what Astoria was thinking; if she was confident in their victory, or if the minutes passed with the slowness of entire days the way they seemed to be doing to him. Suddenly, the Manor felt much too big and much too quiet.

He hadn’t realized how accustomed he was to having her around.

Rising from where he sat on the couch, he made his way down the corridors to his bedroom. The lights appeared to be somewhat brighter now, but they didn’t make the corners any less sinister—Draco was half expecting Nott to jump out at him from some dark corner, intent on getting revenge.

The thought was jarring. Suddenly, he remembered the cold hatred in Nott’s eyes as Astoria had turned away from him victoriously, the cold wave of her words leaving the courtroom breathless with surprise.

The thought transformed his lazy walk into something that was nearly a sprint, and he burst into his bedroom only a few seconds later. Fumbling about dusty piles of unidentified items, he finally fished out a quill and a piece of parchment.

There wasn’t much else he could do, after all.

He began the letter with _Astoria,_ and then felt that maybe it was too unprofessional – but _Greengrass_ wasn’t quite right, either, and _Dear_ anything was much too drastic. He settled for the easiest answer, in the end; one that didn’t remind him of what it had felt like to breathe her name into her ear, in the very bed that lay just a few feet away from him.

_Greengrass,_

_Don’t forget what I said about Nott. He might be just waiting to pounce. Reinforce your wards unless you want him to pay you a visit._

_(Can you even set wards on Muggle flats? If you win this case, you really should invest in something more respectable.)_

_Draco._

He tried to stop his hands from shaking as he rolled the parchment up and summoned Ollie. It was stupid, really, to worry so much – even stupider to send a _letter_ , for Merlin’s sake, as if Astoria didn’t know how to take care of herself already… but as Ollie Disapparated with a crack, he realized that being an active idiot was better than being a passive one.

He threw himself onto his bed and tried very hard not to breathe in the scent of her, still entwined with the threads of his sheets.

A flutter by his arm roused him half an hour later, and he snatched up the piece of parchment like it was a lifeline.

_Draco,_

_I’m not stupid._

_Astoria._

_P.S.: Get some sleep._

He read it almost three times before the meaning sunk in, and then allowed his head to fall back onto the mattress, the note still clutched in his hand. He wondered what she was doing, if she was about to sleep or if she was having trouble doing so – wondered if she thought he was angry, wondered if _she_ was angry, wondered how much she had already guessed about his thought process that day.

He wondered, as he drifted off into uneasy sleep, if this was the last time he would be able to sleep on his own bed like this, curled up in the scent and memories of her, with some vague sliver of hope still fastened to his chest.

He fell asleep, the note still clutched in his hand, and woke up just at dawn.

There was a second letter lying neatly on the lower right corner of his bed, this time an envelope, which opened to reveal a small note and a second envelope – the latter carrying the Ministry seal. The note was simple, with no signature. He didn’t need one to recognize the sender, anyway, when another of her notes was still in his hand.

_I forgot about this, sorry. You wanted to visit your father._

And oddly enough, in the dim morning light, caught somewhere between the crisis of his fear for Pansy and Daphne and Astoria and himself, and the horribly condemning possibility of a cell in Azkaban bearing his name, it made sense.

…

“Master Draco, two wizards is waiting for you,” Ollie said shakily, eyes wide.

Draco didn’t blame the Elf for being apprehensive. Groups of unknown wizards arriving hadn’t boded well for the Manor in the past few weeks. His wand dug almost painfully into his palm, but he snatched his cloak from where it lay crumpled on the ground and followed Ollie out of the room.

He nearly knocked into his mother as she made her way down the corridor.

It felt like it had been a while since he had seen her, but maybe it was only because it had been a while since he had allowed himself to study her with anything beyond passing discomfort. He had decided, somewhat subconsciously, to think of her like one considered a silent statue, an element of the Manor’s very structure – but he couldn’t help, as he watched her breathe with the immoveable rhythm she had set for herself the day she went quiet, feeling considerably anxious. Somewhere behind the statue, his mother still lingered.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to see Father.” At least, that seemed to be the case, unless the intruders really weren’t the Aurors and were actually some form of retaliation for the stance he had taken in the trial. Maybe Creevey had finally come back for more.

Not that he had said anything dramatic enough to warrant an uproar, and the thought of Nott’s secret, still lodged in his brain, sent a shot of revulsion down his spine.

Narcissa said nothing, of course, but as Draco began to make his way down the staircase it became clear that she was following him. It was a strange thought, and he found himself glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to confirm it. Her actions proved more sentience than anything she had done in the entire year, but she hardly even blinked. It was as if the outing had been in her plans all along.

But she was free to go out on her own, anyway. Only Draco was under house arrest. Draco could still remember the ladies that had once gathered in the gardens, sipping tea and his mother’s expensive pastries – she had been so different then. He wondered if she would ever seek her old friends out again; would she even be welcome in their company?

Mrs. Nott had been there, when she had still been alive. The thought filled him with a surprising amount of anger. Nott’s betrayal ran deeper than his threats towards Draco – he had even insulted his own mother’s memory, albeit indirectly, by planning a strategy to steal Narcissa Malfoy’s own house from under her feet…

That line of thought was pointless. Draco suppressed the memories and steeled himself as they reached the drawing room.

The men waiting were, in fact, the Aurors from the day before. They looked only slightly more professional than the Aurors that had allowed the South Wing to nearly burn to the ground, but so far they didn’t seem as unreliable. They looked at him with a distracted sort of concern.

“Malfoy,” the taller of the two said, as if Draco could be anyone else. “We’re here to escort you.”

“I figured,” Draco replied guardedly, pulling his cloak over his shoulders, but not relinquishing his hold on his wand. If the Aurors noticed, they didn’t say anything. Maybe they, too, wanted to get out of the dark, claustrophobia-inducing house. “My mother will be joining me.”

Their eyes slid over to Narcissa’s silent figure. They must have been warned about her condition, because they appeared to waver between silent acknowledgement and greeting.

Draco was halfhoping that they would decide to walk through the gardens and do side-along Apparition just beyond the wards, but maybe they thought that was too risky, or just generally had no interest in letting Draco have a breath of fresh air from anywhere other than the balcony, because he was escorted to the fireplace in the drawing room instead. Draco wondered what poor fool was in charge of administering Floo permits into the house, and if they were at all aware of the sheer amount of people that had successfully gotten past security.

“Isn’t it tempting fate a little, to go to Azkaban today of all days?” the shorter Auror remarked as his colleague took a fistful of Floo powder.

Draco didn’t answer.

When they arrived at the island, the Aurors stayed outside, arms crossed in front of them like a pair of uncomfortable-looking bats. The grey-clad guards didn’t pay Draco much attention beyond what was necessary, which came as something of a relief, and Draco took advantage of the moment to try and figure what the hell he was actually doing in Azkaban the very day of his verdict.

He knew he should be avoiding the place like the plague, and indeed the thought that he may very well be moving permanently onto the island after today was disturbing, to say the least – but he couldn’t get Potter’s stupid words out of his head. Nott’s grinning face was there, too, though it was no longer accompanied by Mulpepper’s. The confusion he felt at the decisions he had thought he had already taken was almost crippling; and maybe it was a stupid, childish thing to need, but he needed to see his father.

He handed over the permission letter Astoria had sent him, and the guards inspected the Ministry seal closely before nodding and scanning him. If their eyes lingered a bit longer on his face, Draco pretended not to notice. He didn’t have many more emotions left to waste.

In the end, he supposed, there was some satisfaction to be derived from being able to look at his father from the _opposite_ side of the glass, if only for the last time.

Narcissa was a silent shadow behind him, her presence still inexplicable. Draco wondered if she knew what day it was; if she knew what awaited him that very afternoon. He wondered if she cared. How different would her life be without a son to care for the Manor?

It suddenly hit him that there probably would be no Manor at all once he left – at least not one in Malfoy possession.

He glanced at her blank expression, those blue that had once held so much worry now utterly empty, and realized that it probably didn’t matter. It might be best for her, after all, to leave a house that was full of so many ghosts.

He wondered if she could see them too; if she heard _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ whispered in her ear every night before she slept.

He wondered how she would feel, now, seeing her husband behind bars.

She had visited once before, of course, when Draco had dragged her along with him. But Draco had found the confusion and even fear in his father’s eyes so disturbing that never attempted to bring her again. Maybe Lucius knew why; either way, he had never asked for Narcissa to return..

The eyes that surveyed him from across the glass were decidedly guarded, though Draco could see a pleased gleam in them. Lucius looked just as haggard as ever, his lips a hard line.

“Son.”

Draco cleared a throat that suddenly felt too tight. “Father.”

Lucius frowned, leaning forwards slightly. Frowning had always made him seem irreparably angry; the expression had kept many Ministry officials squeaking their assurances of assistance, back when it had been offered under the fearsome Malfoy title. “I was not expecting your visit – surely there are matters to attend to before the verdict—?”

“You said you wanted me to come,” Draco answered shortly. “I’m here.”

He didn’t have to ask why his father was so perplexed at his appearance. Lucius’ grey eyes said enough, even in their silence – there was very little hope left. Lucius fully expected to see his own son in an adjacent cell the next day. The frown was only there to mask resignation.

And the realization, so sharp and unforgiving, caused a sudden surge of fear to course down Draco’s spine.

 “Narcissa.”

Draco pulled himself out of his shaking thoughts to see his father finally staring at his mother: the second time in two years. Narcissa had taken the chair beside Draco. She resembled a ghost in every way but her solidity, and if Draco could almost believe that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t even know someone was beside him.

He wondered if there was really any of her left. It was clear, as Lucius’ eyes searched his wife’s face and found nothing, that his father was wondering the same thing.

After some agonizing minutes, Lucius ripped his gaze away. His expression was of such haunted resignation, even under the frown, that Draco found himself scrambling, almost like a child, for anything to say that would ease the terrible tension of the situation. He found himself explaining what had happened with Blaise, and how the Mulpepper issue had been resolved. The words poured out of him tersely and felt stale in his mouth, but his father listened intently.

“Zabini?” he finally said, the frown easing and his eyebrows rising. “That _is_ convenient. His mother may have been a promiscuous tramp, that is, but they certainly reaped the benefits. Not that any of it matters, of course, if the verdict is not in your favor – but I am glad to see you making more… _neutral_ … allies.”

His last words were loaded with meaning, and it took Draco a second to realize what he was implying. By the time he understood, his father was already speaking again, grey eyes ice cold, just like his voice.

“I hear Potter made yet another appearance.”

Draco had to admire the fact that his father somehow still found ways to get his hands on information – did he still have a servant, somewhere, that fed him information? Did the Aurors distribute copies of the _Daily Prophet_? The thought was distasteful enough to make him shudder, but more displeasing was what Lucius was implying.

“He did.”

Lucius let out a frustrated breath. “I told you to be more careful, Draco!” he hissed. “Greengrass may not understand the situation you’re in, so _make her understand_. Siding with Potter is incredibly rash and can even prove dangerous! Who knows what he will ask in exchange? And the precedent this is setting – you’ll have the Malfoy name associated to Potter permanently, if you aren’t more careful.”

Draco ground his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. “Father, I did what I had to do.”

“You won’t survive long if you keep picking a side! What did I tell you—”

“Theodore Nott will inherit the Malfoy estate if I go to prison,” Draco interrupted sharply. “He’s been testifying against me, and he’s blackmailing me, because he knows that I won’t speak his name in court. You know he helped kill Scrimgeour. Is that the sort of person you’d rather have me side with?”

“Theodore Nott is neutral ground, unlike Potter. We can deal with family matters ourselves, without Ministry intervention—”

“He _attacked_ me.” _And Astoria._ The memory of her struggling, caught between Nott and the wall, her arm nearly broken, brought familiar rage back to the surface.

He saw the anger reflected back at him in his father’s eyes. “Then that is for you to resolve, not the Ministry!” Lucius snapped forcefully. “Do you think we Malfoys got where we are by running to the Aurors like whipped dogs?” He slammed his hand on the table in front of him, the sound muffled by the spells in the air. His teeth were clenched, his eyes burning with fury. “I’d rather see you grapple with Nott than involved with scum like Potter or the Weasleys. At the very least, Nott is a Pureblood and a Slytherin—”

Draco had had enough.

“This isn’t a bloody _House dispute_ , father!” he exclaimed,  and suddenly he was nearly shouting at his father, as much as he could allow himself without letting the guards nearby hear his every word. He had never contradicted his father so deliberately, and the rush of it surprised him, warming his limbs, causing his fists to shake. “You don’t want me to pick a side? Or you just don’t want me to pick _Potter’s_ side? Nott wants to steal everything we have – it doesn’t matter if he was a _Slytherin_.”

“He’ll come around. You grew up together, Draco. We all take care of our own.”

“He left us behind years ago!” Draco said roughly. And unbidden, the memory of Lucius whimpering at the Dark Lord’s feet rose to mind – the first time Draco had seen the contradiction in his father’s tales of _power_ and _glory_. “And who hasn’t? Zabini didn’t show up until the last moment, and the Parkinsons distanced themselves immediately. The Crabbes and the Goyles are gone. The Slytherin alliance, the Pureblood privilege – it was all lies. Who’s left, Father? _You?_ ” His breath was escaping him in short, angry pants. “If you’re so bloody _loyal_ to this family, then why didn’t you keep us safe from _him_?”

In the space of seconds, what he had thought had been his definitive decision was now unravelled before him. All he could see through his anger was the pathetic image his father made against the glass, his eyes so wide with rage that Draco could see the sickly yellow of their whites. Suddenly, none of it mattered – not his selfish longing for Astoria, or the family mantra that had haunted his childhood. In that moment, the air suddenly seemed to clear, and the answer to the barrage of questions that had been pounding in his skull was suddenly blindingly clear.

“You have no idea what—”

“Oh, I do,” Draco shot back at his father. The truth was suddenly shining, _glowing_ inside him. It burned so painfully he thought he might fall over from the agony of it. But there was too much to say. “Because the one who ended up shouldering the weight of it was _me_. The one who’s fucking facing _Azkaban_ only two years after Hogwarts is _me._ ” He snorted. “Don’t pick a side? I’m pretty damn sure I’ve already picked a side, Father, and it’s not the one that got us here.”

He jumped to his feet, glancing briefly at his mother. “We’re leaving.”

Lucius’ hands were fists against the table, his livid face nearly pressed against the glass. As Draco straightened and Narcissa rose to follow him, he looked up at his son and let out a vicious shout. “If you betray Nott, you’re betraying everything we’ve ever worked for!”

Draco laughed, then, cold and mirthless. Narcissa stood silently at his side, ready to leave after him. He looked around him. The walls of Azkaban were grey and stained with humidity, and his father’s skin seemed to be merely draped over a skeleton.

He met Lucius’ eyes with disgust, and waved a hand at their surroundings. The words inside him burned. “Look around you, Father. I hope I am.”


	27. Chapter 27

The quill tapped against the wood and Draco watched Marietta Edgecombe shuffle her papers around. He wondered what she was looking for. He wondered if the verdict was already written somewhere, or if the Minister of Magic would merely recite it by heart.

The space between the rows of seats for the audience in the courtroom was wide enough for three people to pass side by side – wide enough for Aurors to drag him out with ease. Back in the day, Dementors had been used for such a task, but Draco couldn't imagine how that could have been any safer than the Aurors – trapped in the heart of the Ministry, it was virtually impossible to escape under the watchful, curious eyes of hundreds of onlookers in the halls of the building.

The soft end of the quill made no noise against the table, but Draco felt its rhythmic impact against his palm. For once, there was hardly any murmuring echoing around the room. He'd arrived early – somehow, the prospect of waiting an extra half an hour in the courtroom had seemed more appealing than waiting at the Manor, though he was now inclined to regret ever making such a decision.

Nott was there, sitting some benches behind Macmillan, glancing at Draco from time to time. Draco had no doubts that he would thoroughly enjoy watching the Wizengamot throw Draco in prison, especially after the way Astoria had embarrassed him in front of the Council.

Draco was still somewhat worried about what consequences Astoria's cleverness would bring about, but nothing seemed to have happened. Maybe she had been right, after all.

Macmillan was already sitting at his desk this time, a calm expression on his face. His arms rested lightly on the table, and his normally intensely focused expression seemed to wander about the room aimlessly. He had nothing left to do; his task was now merely to hear the outcome of his work.

And it should have been Draco's task to finally still his hand from nervously flicking the quill against the table.

The Weasley wearing spectacles leaned forwards towards the Minister and muttered something in Shacklebolt's ear. Shacklebolt nodded, mouth a pensive line.

"Is that mine?"

Draco looked up, startled, and met Astoria's gaze. She was watching the quill in his hand with half-hearted amusement – he had, after all, snatched it from beside her briefcase and the roll of parchment she had left on the desk just before he had arrived – , but the dark lines under her eyes weren't lost on him. She looked incredibly pale in the courtroom light, and the tired way in which she moved into the seat beside him finally made the quill fall still.

She turned towards him again and he wanted again, inappropriately, terribly, to reach out and pull her to him – to have her rest against his chest, to close his eyes and sleep even _half_ as peacefully has he had in those few hours when they had laid together in his bed… to beg her forgiveness for everything that had happened, even the things he couldn't possibly have controlled…

Maybe she saw some of it in his expression, because her hand abruptly moved towards him, and he was almost sure that she would grab his before she suddenly returned it to the table firmly, as if restraining herself.

Her gaze flickered towards the audience the seats behind them.

"Draco," she said, so softly that he might not have heard her if his eyes weren't already fixed on her lips. "I…"

But Kingsley Shacklebolt chose that moment to clear his throat, and the courtroom snapped to attention.

"The Wizengamot is present today to issue a verdict on the case of Draco Lucius Malfoy."

Astoria's eyes moved to Shacklebolt and stayed there. Draco tensed, knuckles whitening, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

The Minister was looking at both Astoria and Macmillan, surveying them with calm thoughtfulness that oddly reminded Draco of Dumbledore. He didn't seem in the least bothered by the intense silence of the courtroom that felt, to Draco, like what the silence of a freshly-dug grave must be like. "This has certainly been one of the most interesting cases that has passed before this Council in the aftermath of the War. The cases presented by both the defense and the prosecution were compellingly made, and I believe that the Wizengamot, in its private deliberations, found that the case of Draco Malfoy was far from clear-cut."

They had decided on the verdict already. The proceedings of that moment, then, were merely a formality that would only give way to variation should some dramatic change take place. Draco resisted the urge to look behind him. Potter couldn't possibly have come – no, he _hadn't_ ; the commotion wouldn't have gone unnoticed – but he still had the uncomfortable sensation that he was there somewhere, watching. Shame curled itself into his stomach.

The Minister was looking at Percy Weasley. "We will proceed, then, with the final verdict. Mr. Undersecretary, if you may?"

Clearing his throat, Weasley nodded importantly and turned to the rest of the room, unraveling a long parchment between his hands. He adjusted his spectacles before speaking in a loud, stern voice.

"Members of the Wizengamot, please raise your hand if in favor of the conviction of Draco Malfoy," he began, and Draco resisted the urge to snap the quill he was holding in half. "On the count of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards under the command of Voldemort, in the murder, torture and other crimes committed against Wizarding and Muggle population from the year 1996 to 1998…"

The Council members seemed to rise to life, plum-colored robes shifting. Immediately, hands shot in the air – many of which were followed by dark, accusing looks belonging to their owners. Draco looked away before he saw which group would prove the majority.

But Astoria kept her gaze straight ahead, and didn't seem to be breathing at all.

Weasley's voice cut through the whispering of the Wizengamot's robes. "The Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy not guilty, on grounds of coercion by blackmail."

Astoria didn't move an inch, but her eyes were wide – some place between apprehension and relief, and Draco wasn't sure exactly which it was.

"On the count of aiding in the infiltration and attack on Hogwarts in 1997 and assisting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, which brought about the accidental attack on Katherine Bell…"

Draco knew the decision before it was spoken, without even looking. The movement of the people ahead of him was audible. He was almost sure that the Minister himself raised his hand.

"The Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy guilty."

Astoria was a cold statue at his elbow.

"On the counts of participating in various Death Eater meetings and witnessing over 30 tortures of innocent Muggles, Witches and Wizards, participating in the sacking of Ollivander's Wand Shop, witnessing the murder of the Muggle Wendy Stewart, and submitting two Ministry officials to the Imperius Curse…" Draco kept his eyes on the quill in front of him, forgetting to blink. "The Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy not guilty, on grounds of coercion by blackmail."

"On the count of participating in the Battle of Hogwarts in support of the Death Eaters, assisting in the murder of hundreds and witches and wizards, many of them students…"

Another pause.

"The Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy guilty."

Draco hadn't counted how many hands had risen. Either way, he wouldn't have really known what it meant for him. Beside him, Astoria had not flinched, and beyond her, even Ernie Macmillan had not moved at all, the same apprehension in his expression.

Macmillan had offered him five years. Maybe he should have taken it. Draco _Lucius_ Malfoy. It was a wonder the Wizengamot had dismissed any charges at all.

He had a sudden mental image of his own face, gaunt and haunted like his father, glaring powerlessly through the glass of Azkaban's visiting hall.

Percy Weasley turned away from the Council and faced the audience, eyes moving swiftly behind his spectacles as he read out loud from the roll of parchment before him.

"However, the Wizengamot wishes to make clear that as the participation in the Battle of Hogwarts did not directly bring about any casualties, and the accused's presence in the castle during the battle went largely unnoticed until the moment in which it became key to the release of Harry Potter through the accused's mother, Draco Malfoy will not be convicted in the same manner that other Death Eaters have been on the same charge."

Without giving the audience time to think, the Minister leaned forwards again and spoke. "Very well," he said, finality ringing in his voice. "The Council has decided. Draco Malfoy is sentenced to one year of intensive community service under the observation of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a fine of four hundred thousand galleons, to finance the Muggle-born Reinstitution Movement over the next decade." And then his eyes were on Draco's, sharp and meaningful. "Mr. Malfoy, you have been very narrowly spared from prison – for your young age and the dark forces that were exercised over you during the War." His tone turned cold. "The Wizengamot has deemed that you are not a threat to society, but if you are brought back into this room, it will be far from merciful. Make this chance count."

He straightened. "The Wizengamot clears Draco Malfoy of all other charges."

The air left Draco's lungs with such force that he felt that it might abandon him forever.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice still rang in the air, the words settling around the room, his eyes piercing all that met his, as if daring them to voice their dissent. Draco felt frozen in place, his feet glued to the ground, his pulse suddenly nonexistent. The Wizengamot was a plum-colored wall stretching out before him, their faces immoveable, their gazes unyielding – a wall barring him from Azkaban and the fate that had been dealt to his father. Freedom stretched out behind him.

But the gleaming floors of the courtroom shone with the same flame of Malfoy Manor all those years ago, and the weight of it shook Draco, and then filled him with strength. Again, Lucius Malfoy's gaunt face, trembling with rage, stared at him, and it seemed to carry the echoes of hundreds of Malfoys before him and their vicious, angry faces full of the hatred that had spurred his father on to join Voldemort, that had decimated his mother's family, that had murdered Andrealphus Malfoy, that had nearly destroyed them.

He turned. Four benches behind where Macmillan sat was Theodore Nott, still frozen in place, eyes on the Minister.

Aunt Bellatrix laughed one last time into his ear, and then was silent.

And suddenly, his veins were alight again, and his feet could move. He stood – chair scraping against the stone floor, loud in the seconds of silence following the verdict – and his heart was, once more, loud in his ears. But his voice didn't shake at all when he spoke, the words leaving his mouth as if he had rehearsed them a thousand times.

"Minister," he said. "I have an accusation to make."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Astoria stiffen as if she had been Stunned.

But it was neither for her, nor against her; she knew that, and would know it all the more because Draco had waited – waited until no verdict could depend on his testimony, until it was clear that he _wouldn't_ sell out Daphne and Pansy in exchange for his own freedom, until it was clear that he had protected them for as long as he could… and now he could not. Because this was the difference – the defining factor in what made him more, _better_ , than Lucius Malfoy.

Shacklebolt was too surprised to react quickly, so his words followed an uncomfortable gap of silence. Finally, he spoke. "An accusation, Mr. Malfoy? This trial is over."

"I believe I still have the right to make an accusation, despite it no longer affecting my case."

The Minister frowned, but nodded slowly. "Very well. Proceed."

"Theodore Nott is responsible for the murder of Rufus Scrimgeour. He was with the group that tortured and killed him. I watched him and the others bring the body into Malfoy Manor that night. It was him."

Silence. And then a cry from a witch sitting near Nott, as he threw her back, scrambling to extricate himself from the audience and run towards the courtroom doorway…

But Draco knew he wouldn't get far, and was prepared, his eyes still on the Minister of Magic, to hear Nott's snarling voice cry out the threat he had held over their heads for so long.

"I accuse Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson of collaborating with Death Eaters during the War!" and his next words were clearly aimed at the barrister sitting at Draco's side. "They'll rot in Azkaban!"

The uproar that followed bordered on absolute chaos. Macmillan, now on his feet, stared at his old witness in disbelief and disgust as Nott was dragged away from the audience by Aurors. Witches and wizards moved away and then huddled together, speaking in shocked tones. Some members of the Wizengamot stood up, Edgecombe scribbled furiously, Bill Weasley's plum-toned robes floated behind him as he crossed the marble floor, wand in hand for good measure…

But Astoria remained in her seat, jaw clenched, skin pale, unseeing. Her breath was steady and her eyes were dry, but Draco knew that there was nothing he could say to fix what he had done. He knew that she would never look at him again.

The hearing was concluded. The audience was fully on its feet, and Nott's words were too overpowered by the other voices in the room to be made out. The Aurors standing near Draco didn't so much as look at him, and the courtroom door swung open as people began to leave.

Silently, Draco reached down and pushed the quill across the table to rest near Astoria's elbow. She remained silent, and didn't look at him. He didn't check to see if she was trembling. Instead, he turned and made his way to the door.

He had known that naming Nott would mean losing her, and so had she. But Draco knew that if he had remained silent, he would have had no right to love her. And as he walked away, free at last, hands fisted in his pockets finally loosening, he took a deep breath and knew that it had been the right thing to do.

…

"Nicely done, Malfoy," Blaise drawled as he slid a glass over the table, Firewhiskey sloshing inside it.

Draco shrugged, and instead of replying looked around at his surroundings. The Zabinis' place seemed to have shrunken slightly, though Draco couldn't tell if it had actually been shrunk or if his own memories were just colored by being much younger the last time he had visited. Either way, it was distinctly cozier than Malfoy Manor, and that wasn't entirely due to Mrs. Zabini's penchant for pastel colors, either.

"What's _community service_ supposed to be, anyway," Blaise muttered over his glass. "Maybe the Weasleys are looking for a House-Elf."

"Usually it's at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. They like making other people handle the artifacts."

"I heard they make people clean the bedpans at St. Mungo's," said Blaise with some amusement.

Draco pushed one of the ruffled cushions out of his way and propped his feet on the lower rung of the low table in front of him, taking a swig of the drink. "I'm just glad I got rid of the Aurors."

Blaise looked idly through a collection of discs that most certainly belonged to his mother. Celestina Warbeck's glittering face flashed brightly in the room and he stuffed it back into the box with a grimace. "Well, you always did like having an entourage."

He was referring to Crabbe and Goyle, of course, and at the thought of them Draco snorted with derision. He could hardly find any connection between himself and the spoiled brat that had strutted through Hogwarts with the two buffoons behind him, antagonizing Potter and his friends. It seemed so stupid, now – so naïve, in the face of everything that had come afterwards.

But not everyone was trained to be a warrior. Unlike Potter, raised in Dumbledore's web, Draco's parents had intended for him to go through life with no knowledge of what had happened in their youth… with no idea of what Dark Wizards could do in dark times.

He knew he should feel bad – guilty, even – for what he had done after the announcement of the verdict. But he didn't. He _couldn't_. Not even the memory of Astoria frozen cold at his side could make him regret it.

It was the first action he had taken in a very long time that didn't fill him with regret.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Blaise was speaking again, dropping the record collection back in place and continuing to work on his drink. "It's too bad, about Pansy and Daphne," he said, shaking his head slightly. "But I can't say it surprised me." His eyes moved to Draco's face. "How's Greengrass taking it?"

Draco knew he wasn't talking about Daphne. He drained his drink.

"I wouldn't know."

…

The rain came as an unexpected contrast from the warm air inside Zabini's house. Draco had almost forgotten what Apparition felt like, and the second it took him to recover from the terribly uncomfortable twisting sensation was followed by the shock of finding himself soaked. He hadn't been on the Manor grounds in a long time, and he was surprised to find himself merely standing there, the cold wind whipping at his robes, feeling the raindrops bounce off his head and trickle down his neck.

He could just use a drying charm, after all. The thought pleased him.

When he reached the main entrance of the Manor, he was relieved to see that the Aurors were gone. If the lights came to life, if he ignored the overgrown gardens… it was almost possible to imagine that nothing had changed at all. That he was merely Draco, coming home after a day of flying with Pansy in the field behind Parkinson House. That Dobby would have dinner waiting, and Father would pester him with Arithmancy questions over his pork and gravy, and Mother would gaze at him fondly and ask how Mrs. Parkinson was doing.

But that was over now, and the thought of sitting with his father at the table left a bitter taste on his tongue. He couldn't undo the knowledge of what his father had been hiding behind his study door, of the fear that had haunted his parents just beneath the surface of his childhood, of the deaths Lucius Malfoy had been responsible for – the murders he had not regretted committing for their own sake, no matter how reluctant he had been to play the part of pawn during the War.

And yet, he reflected as the doors opened before him, Ollie would also have dinner ready, and the fire would be on in the sitting room, and for the first time in two years he might be able to sleep without the eyes of all the victims and perpetrators of the War staring at him from the shadows. Maybe tomorrow, he'd join Blaise again and continue to make the arrangements to seal deals with local distributors. Afterwards, he'd have to present himself at the Ministry, for whatever unpleasant job they would hand him; but he couldn't find the strength to be annoyed. When it was over, he could come home.

Pansy might go to prison because of his admission. Maybe Daphne would, too. It wasn't a perfect ending – the thought of them facing the Wizengamot like he had made his skin crawl – but the pity he felt was not guilt, nor did he think it ever would be.

The doors snapped shut behind him and he made his way through the entrance hall towards the staircase. Few of the torches lit up around him, and for some reason wariness returned with the shadows. There was a strange feeling in his chest; like he was being watched.

" _Crucio!_ "

Draco ducked. Throwing himself around the corner of the arch that led into the cloakroom, he pulled out his wand, knees pressed to the ground. He didn't wonder for a second who had cast the spell. By now, he knew Nott's voice well.

_How had he gotten away from the Ministry?_

He threw a Stunning spell around the wall at where the curse had come from, but as the lights around him lit up, perhaps sensing his newfound awareness, he saw Nott's shadow stretch and cross the floor.

"I told you I would kill you," he heard Nott rasp, breath heavy with anger. "I told you. _Reducto!_ "

Suddenly, the stone against Draco's back began to disintegrate beneath him. Springing up from where he crouched, Draco watched the corner of the wall crumble, a chill running down his arms at the thought of what might have happened if the curse had hit _him_. His next spell narrowly missed Nott's shoulder, and he darted to a side as another Unforgiveable made its way past him.

"Your girlfriend is next," Nott said, grinning mirthlessly. "But I won't kill her. She'll get to watch Daphne die in Azkaban through the fucking _glass_."

Nott was wild-eyed with fury, the robes he had worn to the courtroom already torn by some previous fight. He must have fought his way away out of the Aurors' grasp. His wand was a flurry of movement in his hand, and Draco was forced to throw up shields, trying to make his way up the staircase, where the higher ground could improve his chances. Scorch marks and smoke appeared where Nott's failed curses hit, and as another of his Stunning Spells fell useless against the wall behind Nott, Draco's adrenaline-fueled determination began to give way to anxiety.

He knew, rationally, that even if Nott succeeded in hurting him, the Ministry couldn't be that far behind. But the Aurors couldn't be trusted; and if Nott got through him and went to Astoria…

Suddenly, a grating rumble echoed through the hallway.

The sound was so loud and jarring that both Nott and Draco looked up, momentarily forgetting the fight as the inner wall between the hall and the drawing room suddenly wavered, then curved, and then came crashing down in a deadly shower of rock.

The full impact of the avalanche threw Draco back by a few feet, and he slid across the floor, still not quite believing what he was seeing. His heart was pounding in his chest, his rational fear of Nott giving way to irrational horror at the sudden shock of the Manor wall's collapse. For a moment, he feared that the entire house was collapsing on top of them.

His hands fell limply at his sides, and he coughed as the dust entered his nostrils through his gasps for air. But even through the dark cloud of dust and magic that rose all around the ruin, it was clear that Nott would not emerge.

"He is alive, but barely."

Draco looked up, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw Narcissa.

She was standing where half of the arch leading into the drawing room still stood, wand in hand. Her eyes were alert, focused on where Nott had been before the wall fell. She had spoken.

He had thought about this moment many times over the past years – of all the questions he would ask her, of all the things she could help him with, of all the anger he would unleash upon her, even. But now, still bent over on the floor, eyes and throat stinging from the dust, he found himself unable to say anything other than a simple word.

"Mother."

She was looking down at him, that wide blue gaze he'd remembered so clearly from his childhood meeting his with intense regret. And he felt small again, a little boy in a house that was much too big for him, with a history that was much too dark for him to understand. He almost expected her to reach down and pull him up – but he was an adult now, and hadn't he just survived two entire years without her?

Narcissa didn't seem to be able to move, still standing where she was, looking down at her son with a turmoil of emotions in her eyes. But her mouth trembled, and then curved into a small, saddened smile.

"Draco," she said softly.

He got to his feet, limbs shaking.

He wanted to ask: _why now?_ He wanted to ask: _what where you doing_? _Where did you_ go _for two years?_

He wanted to ask: _why did you leave me?_

So he swallowed down his questions, and pocketed his wand, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He turned to look at the pile of rubble, where one of Nott's feet stuck out among the rocks – and thought, ironically, that he had been more prepared to die by Nott's wand than he had been to speak to his mother again.

When he spoke again, his voice sounded oddly steady in spite of the hurricane that was thrashing inside him.

"What happened?"

His throat was a tight coil within his neck, pulling tighter every second. His mother was watching him – he could feel her gaze on him, and he felt impossibly _cold_ – but he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Draco didn't reply.

The pressure of her gaze wavered, and then moved away from him. "I'm sorry," she repeated again, and the sound was foreign – it had been so long since he had heard her voice, since he had known the rhythm in which she had strung her words. And he had no memory of her ever apologizing to him. She _must_ have. Had she? He couldn't remember. "I was distressed. After… after everything that happened…" she paused, and he wondered if there would be tears in her eyes if he looked at her. "I could not fathom how to save us, how to save _you._ We— _I_ … I had done so much damage already. I could see no future for us. I was sure I'd failed you, that I'd been a terrible mother, that there was nothing I could—"

" _Salvage_?"

He turned to her, shaking. Her face had gone pale. He didn't care.

" _No_ ," she breathed, her tone turning horrified. "I never thought–" She paused, and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were clear. "When I heard what you said to your father, I knew… I'm proud of you, Draco."

But her words were dull against the canvas of the past years. He remembered, still, the horrified look in her expression when he had run to her after the Battle of Hogwarts. How she had watched silently as he bled out on the sitting room floor, doing nothing. And further back, how she had sat still in front of the Dark Lord and said nothing.

"You gave up on me," he said. "Both of you did."

"I was sure we would all be sent to Azkaban–"

"No, you gave up on me a _long_ time ago," he snapped, eyes flashing. "You're just as bad as he is, Mother. You never even _tried_."

In the light of the entrance hall, under the cloud of dust, the brightness in her pupils seemed unfitting for the rest of her. He had grown so used to seeing her dead. Now, her voice was shaking. "I made an Unbreakable Vow."

Draco snorted. "Only because you never thought I was strong enough."

"You _weren't_!"

"I could have been!" If they had tried – if she and his father had ever made him understand what it _really_ meant to be a Malfoy, what it meant to be Lucius Malfoy's son, what it meant to be a Pureblood… he would have known. He would have known when to drop his wand and go to Dumbledore and _end_ it all. "We could have stopped it, before it got serious. Before I had to get _this_ on my arm." He raised his forearm, not bothering to lift the sleeve. She already knew what was there. He remembered how her she had avoided looking at it during his Sixth year; how he had felt resentment, because he had found no strength in her either way – to refuse his mission, or to accept it. Draco ground his teeth together. "Before he came to live in our _home_. You gave up. And you gave up when it was over. You _left me_."

Narcissa's lips were pursed, despite their shaking. When she spoke, her voice was steely, but Draco could see tears clinging to her eyelashes. "I did my best, Draco."

She was pale, and she was much older than he remembered her being. Somehow, the difference was more noticeable now that she was speaking. The lines around her eyes and mouth were more pronounced, and there was a vulnerability to her, despite the iron stance she held, that made her seem terribly fragile. There was a layer of dust over her robes, and her wand hand was shaking, the skin of her hands – so fragile, so protected during her upbringing – taut over her knuckles.

There was no excuse for what she had done to him; no explanation that could ever possibly satisfy him. She had left him, at the age of seventeen, with the weight of the entire Manor and both their futures on his shoulders. He had only been a boy.

But the years had passed, and Draco had survived. And his mother awakening now, after the worst was over, when he had finally found some semblance of security in his life – however precarious it may be - …it meant nothing.

And yet she was looking at him like he had longed for her to look at him for so long; and beyond that, he couldn't possibly mistake the pride behind her grief. She knew what he had done.

"I love you Draco. You're my son."

He swallowed. She didn't understand – she might never understand. The woman he was looking at only knew her grief; she did not understand the struggle of what was _right_ , beyond what had affected her. Perhaps she would never understand why he had had to accuse Nott – why he could not find any more anger in himself to spare for Harry Potter. She had only ever been Narcissa Black, and then Narcissa Malfoy: defined by the purity of her blood, by the prestige of her marriage, and by her love for her son.

And maybe… maybe that wasn't her fault.

…

When Ron Weasley finally arrived with five Aurors in tow, following Nott's trail from the Ministry, even he seemed to freeze in place for a moment at the wreck that was the entrance hall, not quite understanding what had happened.

The Malfoys stared at him.

"Well, you're only about an hour late," Draco snapped, wiping a line of blood from his jaw. He hadn't realized the _Reducto_ curse had injured him slightly until now.

Weasley's eyes moved from the pile of rubble to Draco and Narcissa, and then back to the pile. It was at that moment that one of the Aurors caught sight of one of Nott's arms in midst of the remains of the wall. With a shout, they were soon levitating pieces of rock to retrieve the body. Draco wasn't really sure how Nott could still be alive until he saw that his mother's spell seemed to have intentionally kept his head and chest intact – though it hadn't cared much about the rest of him.

Weasley didn't seem too bothered about Nott's state. Instead, he took their statements and then glanced at Narcissa and Draco to make sure they were uninjured. He caught sight of the blood on Draco's face.

"Well, good thing you didn't hurt your hands," was his only remark, as Draco shook the dust off his robes and gave him a murderous look. "You'll need those to clean St. Mungo's bedpans."

Draco almost replied with a vulgar reference to Weasley's girlfriend, but thought better of it, given the circumstances.

Weasley wasn't the one to apologize – Draco didn't think he had it in him, not even when speaking to Narcissa – but the unknown Auror at his side spent a solid three minutes apologizing for the breach in security that had allowed Nott to escape custody on his way to a holding cell. Weasley didn't say anything about the state Nott was in; his escape, after all, the Ministry's fault, and even Weasley's gnome-brain was capable of understanding that. Draco thought the Aurors almost looked impressed at the extent of the damage done to their prisoner's body.

When Healers appeared and whisked Nott away, followed by three of the Aurors, and the rest of them had helped reinforce the wards on the Manor – much to Narcissa's chagrin – they left. Weasley was the last to disappear through the door.

"Remember Lockhart?" he asked in what might have sounded like a conversational tone, if Draco hadn't known better. "He's in Spell Damage. I hear prunes are his favorite snack."

"Sod off," Draco muttered, but Weasley was already gone.

…

Draco followed Narcissa upstairs, peeling off his outer robes as he went. He dropped them in a dusty, rain-soaked pile where he knew Ollie would find them, and then shook off the excess dust from his shirt. The sitting room seemed brighter, with his mother sitting regally in her usual seat, watching him as he crossed the room to the couch.

There was silence for a moment. His mother was holding a cup of tea; Astoria's disgusted face flitted through Draco's mind for a moment, but he banished the image almost immediately.

"What happens now?" he finally asked.

Narcissa sipped her tea delicately before she spoke. "I do not want to live here anymore," she said, glancing up at the high ceiling of the Manor, and at all the ghosts Draco knew she must be seeing there. "I want to go somewhere – somewhere far… somewhere that isn't like _this_."

He was surprised, but he shouldn't have been; it was obvious. The thought had certainly crossed his mind now and then, in the midst of his hatred of the house. But his mother had loved the Manor for as long as he had known her… and yet, she had loved it for what it stood for; now it stood only for shame and dark memories. Of course she wanted to leave.

"There are cottages near the plantations," Draco found himself saying. "I'm sure it could be arranged."

They were more like summer houses, really. He'd visited them a few times, with his father. With their strained finances, it might be harder to achieve now – but it could be done.

It felt strange to be the one administrating the family affairs.

"That sounds pleasant," his mother replied calmly, and set the teacup down with a _clink_. "We can take the Elf with us; you can start over, far from here – far from London."

It _did_ sound pleasant; a life surrounded by the quietness of the country, in a place where few might recognize them. He could even manage the business with Blaise from afar; Zabini could do all the talking. There would be little need for him to ever set foot in London again, once he had served his sentence wherever they decided to assign him.

It was the silence, and the distance, that he had longed for so long.

And yet…

Draco sighed and leaned forwards on the couch, planting his feet firmly on the carpeted ground. "I can't go with you, Mother."

He couldn't explain it to her: why he had to stay with the Manor, why the home he had hated for so long was suddenly something he couldn't quite let go of. Why he suddenly _cared_ about the family tapestries, so mangled with evil sayings and even more evil people, enough to want to fix them – to improve them.

He'd make arrangements for her to leave. She could go live the life he had thought he wanted for so long. But he would stay.

…

He walked outside once Narcissa retreated to her room to rest. Speaking again after so long seemed to have exhausted her. Draco didn't bother taking a cloak with him as he walked out onto the grounds, stepping over the trail of rubble that the Aurors had dragged outside under their boots.

The rain had stopped. The wet tendrils of the weeping willows swayed gently in the breeze, heavily dripping with water. The lawn, no longer the smooth surface it had been during his childhood, was a collection of puddles surrounded by varied greenery, violent growth, spontaneous and uncontainable. Small snails had appeared near the gravel, and as he stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, Draco thought he could hear the call of a bird in the distance.

The storm was over. In the sky, the clouds had parted, leaving a large circle of clarity overhead; shifting grey giving way to black – and from the darkness, stars, bright and piercing, shone down upon the shadowy outline of Malfoy Manor, twinkling against the dusty windows, against the worn surfaces of its walls, against the charred South Wing, and what was left of Lucius Malfoy's study. Their light crept in through the tall windows of the drawing room, and the glass shards on the floor lit up like diamonds.

Draco kept his face upturned to the stars and the cool wind until his neck hurt. He took a deep breath. He was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only one more chapter after this one, which I hope to have out on the 20th. Thank you so much for reading! It's almost over.
> 
> I'm back in Paraguay! And there's new fan art of Draco and Astoria on my blog (link in my profile).


	28. Chapter 28

**Three Months Later**

"The whole bloody trial was a sham!"

Macmillan scowled with frustration, but no one was blaming him for it. Astoria had her arms crossed in front of her, staring holes into the Minister's desk. The meeting felt like a mere continuation of the furious fifteen minutes that had followed Draco's trial three months ago, postponed, always at last minute, because of Ministry bureaucracy and the complicated scheduling of the Minister and the Wizengamot. Astoria knew she wasn't the only one annoyed at how long it had all taken; the Minister himself looked decidedly sour as he looked at them from across his desk.

Both she and Macmillan had had enough time to stew over the injustices and mistakes of the trial, and apparently both of them had only grown more stubborn. On the other hand, Kingsley Shacklebolt's fatigue at the whole affair had become more pronounced. He frowned.

"I would dare say it evens out in the end," he finally said. "Two unreliable witnesses on the defense against quite a significantly unreliable witness on the prosecution's end."

"And all involved with each other," Macmillan muttered, drumming his fingers against his knee. Astoria shifted in her seat, memorizing the creases in the wood of the desk in front of her.

"You should have done a proper background check on Nott," Bill Weasley put in, but like Macmillan, his anger wasn't really directed at anyone in the room. Nevertheless, Macmillan grimaced, rubbing his temples. "I've seen more people than I'd like feigning surprise at his involvement — it's infuriating, how these things slip through the cracks."

Macmillan sighed. "I feel like the transparency of this trial has been compromised," he said bluntly.

There was silence in the room. Percy Weasley said nothing, eyes moving tiredly from barrister to barrister. Shacklebolt leaned back in his seat and turned his frown on Macmillan.

"And what would transpire differently should there be a retrial? Do you truly believe the outcome would be any different?"

Astoria spoke up before he could answer, glancing pointedly at everyone in the room. "Obviously I am not in favor of a retrial."

Macmillan turned to look at her as if he had forgotten she was there. His eyebrows were still drawn together. She couldn't blame him for his mood — the last thing he had expected to happen was to have his star witness arrested for murder — and she knew, as he looked at her, that his mind had had the time to begin making the necessary connections. He wasn't stupid. Over the course of many chance meetings in the corridors of the Ministry, she had watched his resentment transform into appalled realization as he began to make sense of Daphne's presence at the trial; of the deal that must have existed… of the threat.

None of it mattered, now. At least, not if the trial really ended where it had.

"No one else will witness against Draco regarding Dumbledore's murder," Astoria said quietly. "We all know that."

The Minister nodded in reluctant agreement. "You could lose ground very quickly, Macmillan."

"There wasn't much for the defense to stand on either way," Macmillan retorted, nearly snapping in his hurry to get the words out. "The Wizengamot nowadays seems more concerned with making emotive decisions than imparting justice where it's due."

Shacklebolt's voice turned stern. "I will not tolerate disparaging remarks at the Council."

Macmillan caught himself and swallowed, running a hand over his face. "My apologies, Minister. You can understand why I am rather irritated at the state of affairs."

"I do; and I also understand why Miss Greengrass is loath to submit herself and her client to a retrial."

"The Council proved surprisingly merciful and such a disposition may not hold upon further examination," Bill Weasley put in. His tone was almost rueful. He hated taking a side so clearly. "The evidence _is_ skewed by the criminal involvement of the witnesses."

"The Council's decision is final." Astoria interrupted firmly, eyes flashing. "Hardly anyone was _uninvolved_ in the War; forgive me, but were not all three of you prominent members of the Order of the Phoenix or Dumbledore's Army? Despite being on the right side all along, you can't deny that by definition both organizations were rebel groups – and that hardly counts as _impartial_."

"Let us not lose track of who _won_ the War, Miss Greengrass; and rightly so."

"You know what I meant, sir. Draco Malfoy's case has always been about more than just the punishment he would receive as an individual. It was a chance for the Ministry to reach out to a demographic that has lurked in the shadows, nursing bitterness. It sets a precedent. It creates trust in the Ministry among that segment of the Magical population. A retrial would only further alienate the people we so sorely need on our side to ensure that the mistakes of the First War's aftermath are not repeated."

Bill Weasley shook his head. "Your point is nicely made, Miss Greengrass, but the fact remains that the scope of Malfoy's case is _not_ , in the eyes of Magical Law, any larger than the individual's actions."

"I disagree with the idea of a retrial," Astoria repeated. "To me, it seems like an unproductive use of the Wizengamot's time." She turned to Macmillan. "You won half the case despite your witness' alleged crimes—"

"Not alleged anymore, Miss Greengrass," Percy Weasley interrupted stiffly. "Nott was convicted two hours ago."

She stared at him for a second too long, trying to regain her pace before the shock of the revelation, and then continued after a beat. "Your witness' _crimes,_ then. The defense could easily use Draco Malfoy's accusation as a foothold in bringing his sentence even lower."

Macmillan didn't reply. Astoria turned to the Minister, expression earnest. "Sir, they can't just drag us back in there three months after the case was closed. We've all moved on by now."

Well, Draco must have. The Daily Prophet had dedicated an entire page to Zabini's rise in the market as a surprisingly successful entrepreneur, and Astoria knew Draco was lurking in there somewhere, silent until the Wizarding World would no longer flinch at the sound of his name. Padma had mentioned seeing him in Diagon Alley one or two times, around the hours when less people were out and about. Astoria herself hadn't seen him.

And the idea of seeing him again within a courtroom was just too terrible for her to bear.

The room was silent. Macmillan looked irritable, but didn't say another word. After all, he would have taken the same stance she was had their positions been reversed. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead with annoyance; a headache was beginning to press against her skull.

Bill Weasley was looking at the Minister, expression guarded. He seemed reluctant to agree with Shacklebolt, but Astoria knew he would do so anyway. Shacklebolt remained immersed in his own thoughts for a few seconds. Then he straightened. Glancing at Percy, who was holding a quill and parchment ready at hand, he shook his head slowly.

"I don't want to see another Malfoy in court again," he said. "There will be no retrial."

…

Astoria left the office feeling a mix of relief and foreboding anxiety. The corridors were mostly empty — besides Ministry officials running errands, hardly anyone walked by, and certainly no one spared a glance at her as she stopped, heart pounding, besides a large portrait of Minister Evermonde, trying to catch her breath.

The trial may have ended three months ago, but for her it hadn't really. While the prospect of Macmillan succeeding in his appeal for a retrial had hung over her head, the threat had always been present, day and night. She had spent weeks poring over books, and then more weeks stacking them all back into their corresponding shelves, knowing that there was nothing she could do but wait… wait, and wonder how in Merlin's name she would be able to face Draco Malfoy again, much less if they ever met in court.

Daphne's trial was due in two weeks, the countdown shaking the foundations of the Greengrass home. Astoria had spent the last months either comforting a crying Daphne, or attempting to calmly explain the good chance her sister had of being cleared to her uneasy parents.

None of it had really come as a surprise to them. All of them had suspected that Daphne had been involved in the War, in some way or another. Astoria felt that, oddly enough, it was _she_ who had been the least prepared to face the situation — even her mother, flustered and impossibly angry at the Nott family and all its ancestors, had already had a speech prepared for any other Pureblood family who dared inquire as to Daphne's chances.

 _"And we all know that our dear Astoria upholds the name of this family,_ " Mrs. Greengrass had taken to saying with a fond sniff. " _Without her our little Daphne would be lost. It_ is _wonderful to have a Greengrass so closely involved with the Ministry's decisions._ "

It was horrible. It was ridiculous. It was almost amusing.

"Greengrass."

She started out of her reverie. The portrait of Minister Evermonde snorted snidely at her side. Ernie Macmillan was approaching from the door she had just come through, offering her a sort of awkward grimace that was meant to be a smile, twisted by the stress of the day. He extended his hand when he reached her.

Astoria blinked.

Macmillan took a deep breath. "I don't…" he paused and continued with a sheepish look on his face. "I guess I don't want you to feel like this was in any way personal. You did a good job, and that's the truth."

She shook his hand and couldn't help feeling that same mix of fondness and annoyance she always felt towards Macmillan. She forced a smile. "Thank you. So did you."

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if to dislodge the strain of the day. "Anyway, Padma wanted me to ask if you're coming over on Saturday. Her sister's going to bring some new dessert — she says the recipe's one of Honeydukes' secrets."

"That sounds delicious." She still felt weak—distracted. The case was over. Now she could focus on her secretly overwhelming fear for Daphne, and on the churning emotions that kept her waking up at night, unable to sleep again, focused on the memory of Draco's eyes the last time he had looked at her.

She didn't want to think of him. And yet… she couldn't help it.

The portrait of the Minister sniffed loudly when she said goodbye to Macmillan and walked away, bracing her shoulders as if against a cold wind. She should be writing Draco a letter now, explaining that it was _really_ over — but the idea of contacting him again tore painfully at her chest.

It wasn't that she didn't want to speak to him — it was the opposite.

She was only a few steps away from the lift when Macmillan called out to her again.

"Astoria."

Pushing the turmoil of thoughts away, she turned around. He was still standing where she had left him, hands in his pockets, his face a mix of resignation and embarrassed determination.

"Yes?"

In a few seconds he was at her side, rubbing his forehead. He sighed. "I want to take your sister's case."

Astoria stared.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have evidence—" and voice was suddenly absolutely confident, earnest despite the pride she could tell he was sacrificing with his words. "While we were trying Marcus Flint for a Muggle raiding case last year, I came across a collection of letters he'd sent. In one of them, he was threatening your sister… that if she didn't help, he would hurt her, and so on." He gave a short nod. "I can do it."

Astoria could hardly breathe. A knot was forming in her throat. "You're sure?"

He made a face. "Nott got away with only fifteen years of imprisonment. You were right — Malfoy set a precedent." He raised a hand before she could retort, a gleam of amusement in his expression. "I'm not trying to be a prat. I'm just saying — Daphne will be fine. I'll make sure of it."

She was silent for a moment as the dread that had been winding around her chest unexpectedly loosened. She let out a breath.

Meeting his gaze again, she smiled. "Don't make this into some sort of heroic tale, Macmillan."

He recognized his own words immediately and rolled her eyes. "Be grateful, Greengrass."

Her smile widened, and then she sobered, holding his gaze. "Thank you."

Macmillan shrugged, a wry smile on his face. "I guess it's time I take one of the more complex ones."

As she left the Ministry, she could already see protesters gathering in the Atrium. Some things would not change for a long time, and she couldn't honestly say that she wasn't disappointed with Nott getting a mere fifteen years after everything he had done. But as she prepared to Floo to her parents' home and break the good news to Daphne, knowing that the _Daily Prophet_ would not write any more articles on Draco Malfoy for a long time, she felt surprisingly calm.

Draco's case had had its consequences. But she could live with the verdict.

…

She didn't have lunch. She wasn't hungry. Instead, Astoria settled down on the now empty couch, almost missing the familiar weight of books that had previously dug into her sides whenever she sat down; they had all been put away now, until her next case. Bill Weasley had sent her a memo just before their meeting, arranging to speak with her the following day. She suspected there were plans in store for her.

She had all but escaped her parents' home, unable to deal with the barrage of questions that had followed her announcement, and then Macmillan's official letter offering his services. It was too much. Her fear for Daphne had lessened, and the terror she had felt at the prospect of a retrial for Draco had completely disappeared… and now she was left feeling slightly hollow, emotionally exhausted, knots twisted around her heart, pressing irritatingly into her every time she breathed.

The carpet looked tempting, and she nearly sunk down to the ground to lean against the edge of the couch in the same way she had done all those weeks ago, when she and Draco had fallen asleep early in the morning, trying to escape the battles that awaited them… trying to rest from their fears.

It felt… _wrong_ , somehow, to deal with the relief of it all alone.

And wasn't it ridiculous, to _still_ feel so attached to him — because that was what she was, _attached_ , after everything he had caused her family to go through… after only spending time with him for a few weeks?

And yet for three months she had been unable to shake this feeling. Her silence, his silence, the lack of correspondence between them… it had only served to make it all worse.

She had to write to him, either way. It was inevitable. But to write a letter and ignore everything that had happened between them…

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart was suddenly pounding.

Standing up slowly, she felt tingling erupt across her shins. She hadn't realized that she'd been sitting still for so long. Had she left the water boiling? Reaching for her wand, she waved it in the kettle's general direction, quenching the flame beneath it. As she approached the door, she kept the wand in her grip, just in case.

Somehow, she'd grown even more cautious _after_ the War than she'd ever been during it.

The Muggle streets outside were always loud at this time of day. She could hear them, and could see the wavering shadow of whoever was on the other side of the door, as if the person hesitated to knock again—

Before she lost her nerve, she unlatched the door and pulled it open.

Draco Malfoy was standing there, one hand on either side of the doorway, staring at her with a mix of guilt and apprehension that would have been comical if the situation hadn't been so tense. As it was, all Astoria could feel was clenching trepidation in her stomach. She could only look at him, any words she may have considered using dying in her mouth.

He looked healthier. Not by a lot, but then again improvements weren't hard to achieve given the degree of dejection he had reached in the past; the last time she had seen him he had been thin and haggard, invisibly scarred and bruised in a million places. Her memories of him ranged from the despair of feeling the fragility of his ribcage as she half-carried him through Malfoy Manor, the greyness of his skin as he bled out on the floor… to the thrill of his chest against hers, his fingers steady and warm and alive threading themselves through her hair.

He seemed like less of a contradiction, now, except his eyes were full of something she couldn't name, and his jaw was clenched tightly, as if he feared his words might just rush out ahead of him.

Her hand twitched, and the wand nearly fell from her grasp. She hardly had the presence of mind to put it back in her pocket.

"Draco."

"Astoria," he breathed. The first time he had said her name, they had been running through the Ministry, her fingers clinging to his wrist, masking her own uncertainty in concern for his safety. Now, hearing it from his lips didn't seem as odd. It was strange that the sound of it in his voice could grow so familiar in so little time.

Draco drew in a shaking breath, his arms falling down at his sides, as if he feared taking up too much space in her doorway. His face was clean-shaven now, cheeks more similar to how they had looked when they were at Hogwarts — except there was something so innately _different_ about him that it was almost hard to connect the man to the teenager he had been.

When Draco continued, his words were a terse rush. "I know you probably didn't ever want to see me again, and I—" he stopped, reaching up to run a hand through his hair nervously, nearly tearing it out. "I just—I thought—"

"No." Astoria interrupted, shaking her head. "No, it's—it's all right."

And she was surprised to find that it was.

"How are you?" she added.

Something akin to wry amusement filtered through the concern in his eyes. It was such an _ordinary_ question. It felt so meaninglessly light compared to the weight of everything else.

But she did want to know. And maybe it was the steadiness in her gaze that prompted him to answer.

"Mother spoke again," he said flatly. "She's gone to live somewhere else."

Astoria's eyes widened. She had heard nothing about that; but it shouldn't surprise her, she supposed. Narcissa would hardly have any urge to announce to the world that she was suddenly not mad anymore. It was best for her to be remembered the way she had been in the trial: as a weak, sickly mother with no will even to defend herself or her son. It was what had gotten her cleared; it was what would keep her safe, wherever she was.

It was the thing she – and, she suspected, Draco – would never be able to fully forgive.

She crossed her arms in front of her tightly, as if to hold in her beating heart. "And you…?"

"I'm still at the Manor. Working with Zabini."

"I thought so."

Silence fell between them.

And then Draco let out a sigh of frustration and looked away. When he met her eyes again, his were burning fire – reckless, angry, _anguished_.

"I wish I could say I'm sorry," he said, and his voice shook with the harsh force of his words. "For accusing Nott. For making him accuse your sister. I should be, I guess. _Slytherins look after their own_ , and all that…" he scowled, and defiance was etched on his face, as if he was daring her to be angry, to blame him for everything that had happened. "But… I'm not sorry. It was the right thing to do. I just—I wish it hadn't been your sister."

"I know." Astoria drew in a shaking breath. "And… I was proud of you, for doing what you did."

He snorted. "I don't need you to be proud of me."

The words hit her like a wall, and she nearly stumbled back. But when she met his gaze she saw the fire there.

"If I'd let myself…" Draco's carefully collected mask fell away in front of her, and he pressed his palms against his face, as if to try and keep inside everything he wanted to say despite himself. He was a tall, thin figure in the middle of the hallway, robes placing him in stark contrast with the Muggle world they were both suddenly in the midst of. "After that night, Astoria, I just wanted to be with you and forget about everything else—about the War, and the Ministry, and the bloody mess I've been… I wanted to just stay with you, screw everything else." He drew in a shuddering breath. "I wanted — I wanted you to be _everything_."

Astoria couldn't speak. Her feet seemed permanently joined to the floor, her heart the only part of her that could not remain still. And she could still feel it; the pull that had threatened to tear her in half as she had walked away from him that night, as he had walked away from her the day after… it was there, exposed between them, and they could no longer ignore it.

When Draco's hands fell away from his face, there was stubborn defiance in him again, rigid and unyielding.

"But I can't. I couldn't. You deserved better than that — you _deserve_ better than that." His voice was shaking; and for a moment she wondered if his heart was also bruising his ribcage, if the gleaming redness of his eyes was because of _her_. "You deserve someone who stands up for himself and fixes the shit he breaks, and I can't do that, not really. But… _fuck_ , Astoria… I want to be that."

She couldn't speak. She couldn't say a word, and his expression was begging her to speak, and the sight of him strung so painfully in front of her felt as if it were tearing her to shreds.

Draco looked away. "And I guess I'm just fucking things up more by even showing up here. I probably should've owled…"

"I thought I'd be angry."

He stared at her.

Astoria nearly gasped as the words finally left her, and though the rest of her body still could not move, the words were there—the words were free.

"I thought I'd be angry, because of Daphne, because you didn't tell me what you were going to do, because… even though it would be irrational… I _should_ be angry. Even though I know why you did it. Even though part of me _wanted_ you to do it." Her breath left her in a low, bewildered laugh. "But I'm not. And it's terrifying to know that I can just… _get over_ something that… that _monumental_ … but I can. And you're here. And I'm not angry. I'm—" She looked away, sight clouded. Draco's shadow seemed carved into her floor. "I didn't think you'd want to see me again either, after everything. They aren't…. they aren't the best of memories."

"They _are_." And he seemed about to step forwards before he caught himself, remaining where he was. His eyes shone urgently. "To me, they are."

"You asked me, in the ballroom that night…" her voice shook. "You asked me, if you accused Nott… if I could ever touch you like that again."

Draco said nothing. He seemed frozen where he was, much as she had been only a moment ago. All he could do was watch as she stepped forwards, her hand reaching out, fingers bridging the space between them and brushing against his.

The warmth of him rushed through her: not passionate fire, but intense, overwhelming relief.

Slowly, his hand closed around hers, their fingers entwined. Astoria looked up at him, eyes searching his as his thumb moved over the back of her hand, relishing in the space it had longed to occupy all along. Draco was silenced with surprise, as if his mind had not yet caught up to what his body had recognized with such ease, and he merely stared back at her as she looked at him, at his blonde hair, the lines of his face – no longer tense with fury or unbearable pain – at his now healed neck, at the arm that reached towards hers, the scar that split the Dark Mark in half, both an irredeemable wound and an indisputable statement.

She reached up to his shoulder and then he was pulling her towards him, his face buried in her neck, hers pressed against his clavicle, breathing each other in as long sought-after oxygen. The relief of his closeness spread through her, quenching any remaining despair or anxiety.

"Daphne's going to be okay, Draco," Astoria murmured as he moved to press his cheek to her forehead. "So are you. And… so am I."

Draco's fingers where ghosting across her neck, as if he was trying to make sure she had no bruises left. Perhaps he had worried for her safety, like she had worried about his. Against the side of her face, his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"Does that mean I can ask you out now?"

The laugh that escaped her came as a surprise. She drew away slightly, her hands on his forearms, raising an amused eyebrow at his smirk. "You want to ask me out?"

His smirk widened, but then he glanced down the corridor. It was still deserted, but the Muggle cars outside made the building windowpanes shake. Some blocks away, the Wizarding World awaited. Draco hesitated. "Well, figuratively speaking. I'm not really in the mood to be chased by the press just yet."

Astoria drew him closer. Cheek against his chest, she pulled him into the flat with her, reaching for her wand to start the kettle again. "Maybe we can just have some tea."

His voice was a low vibration against her chin as she looked up at him. He was glancing around her flat feigning mocking appraisal. "Do you even have space for a House-Elf in this broom closet?"

The door snapped shut behind him, locking them away from both the Muggle world and the Wizarding world. The couches looked warm and welcoming as the afternoon light turned golden through the windows. Astoria glared at Draco despite the smile that threatened to escape her. "Shut up, Draco."

For a moment he seemed to be of half a mind to continue teasing her, but he reached up to cup her cheek and pressed his lips against hers instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! 
> 
> So much has happened in the last two years... I can't believe it. I had the idea for this story years before I began writing it, but when I finally did start it was one of the most intense writing challenges I've ever set for myself. I wrote it during the hardest time of my life, and I think that Draco's journey in The Malfoy Case in many ways mirrored my own. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and encouraging me through these last 28 chapters (I originally thought it was going to be just 10 chapters... wow), through life in Paraguay, then Israel, and now in Paraguay again. You have no idea how much your support has meant to me.
> 
> There's more fan art in my [blog](http://www.nasimmansuri.wordpress.com) of Draco and Astoria! 
> 
> And if you're wondering what I'll be working on next... well, here's [Marius](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6274573). It's set in 1938 (and surrounding years), and my plan for it is so exciting I have to control myself to not give it all away! But there's a lot of organized crime, Wizards vs. Muggles vs. Squibs, Grindelwald and World War II, and the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black (and of course, some romance). I can't wait for you to read it!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading The Malfoy Case.


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